I

To be beyond fragile body--

material decays into dissipating energy,

concentric echoes across water. Foam

blesses sand, polishes

stones. The waves as progenitor

and grave, the shore

a transition to survival.

II

Ammonites exposed by blowing

dust peek through shrunken

wildflowers--antique

remains, cracked wood with bark

that chokes ants. In the shush, the resonance

of brass bells across scrublands

demands a return to values and fear

handed down by gods. Organ pipes

wail, unaware of yellow balloons

roaming. Without tongues,

the fossils can't taste

the absence of dew.

III

On the other hand, an appearance

in dreams as if embraced by gold auras--

an appearance so real that everyone else

is flat and caricatured. what of their

self awareness? The shimmer implies

a consciousness, energy that visits from

beyond, that remembers

and understands.

IV

Rippling streamers illustrate

the movement of air--not stagnation

of scum on ponds but the reflection of light

back towards the sun: the moon slumbers

below sea and salt, restless to wake.

V

Is this the legacy you want to leave behind?

Systemic changes cross webs, lost

spiders in the air. To be far-reaching,

you must create a compendium of ice and wood,

travel beyond the layer of clouds

that installs itself on the museum wall. Tipped

on its side, the sun wheels through haze and

heat until nothing is left but fragments and

those who remember.

I flare my inner lantern in pulses

until you see my iron illumination,

the fleshy centipedes that scurry beneath rocks

when morning breaks. Some call

me a devil, a harbinger who leads to the truth

that's sought, the peat exhumed from smoky bogs.

Hovering, waiting, I see your shadow

appear in shimmers of spring fog that slip

between waves and dune in the night. I turn

and float a red salamander sliding beneath stars,

past the creek filled with old tires, past

the bend where rebar protrudes from tossed

concrete and gray clay supports the bluff. Drifting

inland, my light as hot as Betelgeuse smolders and trails,

entices, encourages. The rusting cage of monkey bars

brightens as if touched by the moon and through

the sneezy weeds, the path opens between

the stern oak, the coy maple where the afterglow

of autumn bonfires haunts iron gate. White

sentinels of birch guard fallen logs that rot

and peel, sandy pine hollows hang moss to dry

in the coming summer, and the pit emerges with its sharp

slopes, spongy ground covered in pine needles, broken

branches housing ants and beetles. Across the far

side of the pit and I hear you panting as I extinguish

my light, reappearing through the trees, wind fanning my flames. With

the brilliance of Mars, I flash bright as lightning and the woods vanish

under my illusion, replaced with a barren

field of dirt and rock. The trees clear-cut, houses appear

in two rows from bluff to road. Fences are erected, "No Trespassing"

signs nailed up. Brambles pierce skin as I release the vision,

and in the dark, I see you collapse to your knees. The wind

stops blowing, the owls hush, and you

slowly stand and head toward the road.