Deep blue facade overlooks

a disorienting expanse of trees

whose branches spread out

like moths, deep indigo

easing between their wings.

The world exists in

secret alcoves with sepia

faces that form mosaics of

yesterday.

Beneath a streetlamp on the

boulevard Garbo holds a cigarette

between fingers the color of birch.

In sleepless nights I drift on a river

of primeval dreams waiting for you to

show me there is nothing ordinary

about the dark.