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Poem	we walk through a calligraphy of hats slicing off foreheads ace-deuce cocked, they slant, razor sharp, clean through imagination, our spirits knee-deep in what we have forgotten entrancing our bodies now to dance, like enraptured water lilies the rhythm in liquid strides of certain looks eyeballs rippling through breezes riffing choirs of trees, where a trillion slivers of sunlight prance across filigreeing leaves, a zillion voices of bamboo reeds, green with summer saxophone bursts, wrap themselves, like transparent prisms of dew drops around images, laced with pearls & rhinestones, dreams & perhaps it is through this decoding of syllables that we learn speech that sonorous river of broken mirrors carrying our dreams assaulted by pellets of raindrops, prisons of words entrapping us between parentheses — two bat wings curving cynical smiles still, there is something here, that, perhaps, needs explaining beyond the hopelessness of miles, the light at the end of a midnight tunnel — where some say a speeding train is bulleting right at us —— so where do the tumbling words spend themselves after they have spent all meaning residing in the warehouse of language, after they have slipped from our lips, like skiers on ice slopes, strung together words linking themselves through smoke, where do the symbols they carry stop everything, put down roots, cleanse themselves of everything but clarity —— though here eye might be asking a little too much of any poet's head, full as it were with double-entendres
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