since summer ended i’ve sensed 

the Spirit idling 

in the corners of rooms the greying skies 

the spire of st. simeon’s the 

soft harbor of sara’s neck. 

what is this sensibility beyond 

mind or intuition 

acknowledgement of the Third Person? 

it’s like 

wheat stalks leaning in these elds outside lexington 

beige and dry gold green deferring to the 

sightless passing of the air 

which blows where it wills and you hear its sound 

but you know not where it comes from 

or where it goes. 

in the waterless wind they willow and worship. 

no one told me this is 

how 

You choose to be 

a Hovering 

spread translucent thin 

over the screens of being. 

how long will this feeling last?