Playbill Platypus

 1.
I hear the cicada it must be summertime,
shadows lengthening toward evening’s end
as the golden chariot again plunges into
that mauve colored powder puff at creation.    
How come loneliness?  And of what palpable absence now in your life,
full stride into middle-age?  Youth flown on waxen wings.  Her painted
face, a painful memory now that she is really gone, also brings succor
when dreaming. 
Find the place between footfalls --
fold the page over to where the city cicada meets one of
my childhood.
Breeze like soft applause in tonight’s program,
Let this sunset fold into another,
no less momentous.
Say that we can feel this like our fingertips touching; voiding all
distance, cancels no sadness in a sad world, no --


 2.
The corner
where you stand and where I stand is the intersection of
what imaginary number?  You see how I jump
at the conclusion, albeit haltingly as if through
a prismatic light in a
cloud chamber.

The ringing of bells.  Tho scarcely the precise chime followed by the
expected ringing away, but the wake at the widest part of
the Vee (all effect adrift, and bereft of its cause)
toward the taut vellum of the world, at which center the storied
omphalos at Delphi.  Here we have now arrived
at the great chain of being.
One child’s mandala in the turn of a toy kaleidoscope.

Even so, I have taken pleasure out of your philosophy of life.
I look forward to sharing
my thoughts with you about your
saraband; about the part of just fitting in before everything
falls apart.