Sometimes in poetry

I listen to resonance ring in ingots slung upon anvils. I witness images slip inside hesitant visions of dualities and trace words from lips unkissed by this reality. So what of these swirling waves wielded by the seas... perhaps wind patterns in wheat fields, or the summer-warm stones in some forlorn churchyard lonely as bony Mondays – I feel warm winds lofted in liquid birdsong. I see people unwind their temporal chains as God wanders through cardboard stage-props taking names. And any loose intuition is just a collective echo of thoughts scribbled across ad-libbed finality. Numbers rotate unscathed in their mysterious dance upon cellular divisions of infinity. Giant cog wheels of history roll into the seas and rust. In polarized inversion, wintry midnight suns throw no shadow of ego. Somewhere on Earth, a drop of vanilla ice-cream falls between sandy toes.