With Sun coming in
That's not a window
It's a cataract
Or a Gaussian Blur
Maybe a soft good placed across the proscenium of a great opera
But this western omelet of a train
Giving only hints of shape and shadow
Is not so mysterious as it is vaselined
Scenery that I recognize
Can be identified loosely
A foggy memory bank
Not a great game
For a man so close to fifty and feeling his age
But fuzzy tree branches
Leaves gone to settle
Into Spring's mulch stew
Feed the imagination
As witches hands
And wasteland spires
Paintings that deliver high contrast
And starkly much else
Graffiti in tunnels is softer
And so am I
When traveling blindly
Or nearly so
In a fugue state
Or a shoegazy huddle
Mind in the mud
And a Sun masquerading as a paper lantern
Slowly creeping its ghostly way through a cold wax museum
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