A silken purse under Night's pillow filled with foreign objects: a pair of yellowed roundway tickets between two unrelated planets, expired nameless memories that smell of sandalwood, penciled notes from Tomorrow A book of Books left with its thought-torn owner, amassed words caressed by Lover's hand, lines blurred by salty questioning--- a story revisited A face with familiar telling & becoming, eyes empty, dark as Night's own child, void of music, a bird perched inside that paradise of Mind A house designed with its own solar system, echoing space between lives lived, built on the edge of a beating heart, the same sound travels on the same wooden Death of stairs, tire- lessly, sound- lessly If you have lost something, Friend, don't worry They are all there among the debris of a lingering past like unmarked boxes, heart's secret cargo, around the block of sleepless Night sleeping &make sure to inform Dream's doorman what you are looking for that's Lost. ---LTG 2004
