Creatures of mallow and blue

The art of presence 
stands alone 
and beside others
mocking the ghost of the nightingale. 

Moss impressing his absence in my wake, 
I sleep to dream of him —

In dreams we walk enamored, 
through fields of mallow and blue —

Coax our hearts from these distant shadows, 
moonlight, I am you. 

Craftsman of my delicate heart, 
he holds me in violent space
enraptured by his decadence, 
I long for the fields 
of honey willow and oak —

His visions blur, 
reaching out to me one last time —

Poised on the shoulders of others, 
the detached fly.