the scent
of a macrocarpa
and innocence
is it to see
the moon behind the cloud
the deathmask eyes?
such wonder too
breaks down into silence
trickling stream
this deep
into the interior
where the spring?
as dusk
bruises the lake
visions rise
the darkness
circling Makara
in the gull's cry
muddy pond—
a frog dives into
pre-existence
entering deeper
the mind's underbelly
of curdled clouds
to the stars
a candle waxes
lyrical
everywhere
my invisible history
of being