The Windstar

I sleep on the whims of fancies.
They pass like peds by as I
Lose more in my wake than all dreams
I've dared to ride:

Trips under pacific skies
That sound off suns like emergencies
Caterwauling me into that sharp awareness
Of post-ecstatic refractory,
Fractaling my inscape with residue's glint
And glistening eye I've used
To hear what prophets call in guilt-stricken sighs:

A marvelous love.

A home from where I'm prone to run on prodigal roams
Along highways on the border of metal pasturelands--
Cities farmed on shallow wishes, gathered up and chucked
Into one great horde of unhoned detail and image,
Junked to rot with the rust of a father's squandered wealth.

And yet I'm still struck like all of us
With a willful lust for a God I brush
With ash-black strokes across traveling books
That leave no more of me to reveal or look,
Not even all this skin and bone I've mused
To wrap its fleshy grasp around an open fuse.