Landslides and Moodswings

As my careworn eyes meet

A quiet few balconies

On an even quieter side street,

My talltales, they shorten;

To the skyline retreat.

As a led astray gush of wind

My neckline sets to greet,

A blank piece of paper and

Endless opportunities

Stir beneath my fingers’ heat.

To move them now is such   

Slight a deed, indeed.

I won’t care for in morning;

This shepherd, that nymph,

And all wretched couplings,

That in moon’s pale stretch lies

A Rome till this ceiling

And a draped windowpane

Could still make a heart wring;

That a finger-painted sky

And the night’s velvety scent

As much cajoles my writing,

As probable a meteor rock is

To crash in a desire spring.

From yon crooked oak tree

To this glass of milk,

The paperballs belonging to me

Often land in that empty plot

To which one has no key;

Often hold some far-off tales

My pen fails to agree.

No passion flower, oak sprouts

No Echoes to repeat after

Such a winding soliloquy.

So in this turbid pool

I, myself, stoop to see.

A poem-maker subverts,

Again seeks bed’s embrace

To unlearn the secrets

I spent a lifespan to chase.

Prep school, one such place;

Approved only after leaving it,

Stabbing its entire rat race.

And in sodden roots of nature

Found my solace.

For only in past participles

My admiration has a face.