parallaxis

my baby my poem

new leaves in the vineyards sprig white green, white yellow

not red and purple and blue.

it is hard to see past the dramatics,

do they mean anything at all?

can you see them too, not meaning a single thing?

there is a certain way where words mean nothing

in a grand manner

but this is not it;

this rings of no dreams, no visions, no heart,

especially no heart at all, and no true

at all. maybe it's me

and maybe these visions are my blue -

but for all the travel, all the distance, all the world over

where no one can really go, where no one has been,

especially me, this still sounds eyes-closed,

finger-jabbing spot-off, somewhere not there

and hollow