I've felt it wandering through the darkness between old memories and beneath maps
blown in from nights of endless dreams.
It's as elusive as the fragrances of colors.
I've almost seen it as a kind of palimpsest
on which time inscribes a baffling beauty.
It sometimes appears when I think of a place
that doesn't exist, where evening comes deeply and austere shadows are winged in by swallows. It's like the dim flowing of chemicals in poppies. I've almost known a word floating from trances, similar in valence to “significance.” It quivers
as a hesitant disclosure or like the fractal irises
of a strange curator's eyes. Something like hope is gathering quietly in the fantastical tangents.
~TB
