Haunted, he wears his ghost lightly.
Woven on phantom air
the dream descends like spent ashes.
Singing, with pointed sticks
he marks the wing of the lightning,
as only a father might do.
Entangled in ghost tossed clouds
he follows his fractured dreaming
like a mother’s goodbye.
Haunted and enchanted,
he summons the cast of the moon,
the wash and cry of the sea.
The borders of sleep are burning.
Poem and pastel drawing by Clinock
Seeking sanctuary from the burn
I enter her cold and holy dance,
and am unmasked, and frozen
between unseen armor
and tundric nakedness
as she avalanches
to a purer love.
She moves in fires I cannot enter
and consumes my night in flames.
She pours herself through me,
a radiant and smoldering lava
scorching a charcoal path
on which I follow
her bright beauty.
There is mystery in her conflagration
binding me with smoky tongues
and releasing me in blinding light.
Her immaculate impossibility remains
and I am fused forever
to this sighing ghost
of ash and passion.
painting and poem by clinock