by Richard King Perkins II
I can feel the presence of your will
the warmth of your distant sounds
in the place where you’ve gone
to be;
a house in the high mist
quiet cobblestone pathways
slowly winding
between temples and colonnades
the taste of wine from the moon-tree.
All the wonders of the unseeable world.
And here I remain.
The dreamer who falls in dreams
and lives on as a whistling sigh;
the sound of swatting flies
on a solid chair in an abstract room.
[Check out Richard’s back porch wisdom]
