The silence rocked by
strange whines
of metallic bones,
The gentle gossamer tarp,
quaking, flapping
like loose lips
and molting feathers.

Through the London fog,
I saw nothing
but waves of imagination,
and castles
assembled with pebbles
and arching cranes.

Imagination,
the word  takes me back
to a time when graphite,
had something in common
with my eyes, ears, and mind.

I looked through
my cinderblock glasses,
my pumice periscope,
and saw nothing but trees,
and I couldn’t hear them

talking…