Cylindrical thoughts caught in symbols 
Covered by an outer celluloid 
Upgraded with playbacks and reruns 
Of old friends and fictions who are everyone 
They were, will, and want to be,  
Births, rebirths, death, and immortality 
 
I speak in repetition, stumbling into you again 
No wonder gravity forms balls and circles 
Our dialectic, a language of insomnia 
That living lip sync of teeth and tongue 
That make up the shapes of ghosts 
Crawling like faint shadows of moving clouds 
 
Our fleshy hearts tethered to the whirl 
Internal, speaking of the external  
Of clocks mistuned inside the unsteady continuum 
With our linear kissing and stove top stuffings 
Perhaps this is our mistake 
Caught inside the act of noise 
Trying to explain the hyacinth 
 
“Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, 
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not 
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither 
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, 
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.” 
 
Speach vanishes, with the incoming of golds 
Browns, yellows, and reds. 
Autumn turns, turns, turns, while the 
Wind haunts sticks and stems, looking 
Forward to their recycling, and our  
Eyes old and new 
Peering