Ichor

They flow, Insipid and slow, Like infinite moments of wistful longing. Like clasped fingers that disentangle at Bon-voyage. Like old sand-glass That fails to catch irrevocable times. They merge Once in a while, In a moment of epiphany, as two droplets fall for each other, perchance. They reflect a blameless, radical glow of white, as they slowly hide a blurred, blurred world, Beyond the veil of untold gray. Beyond an unmade dream That grows steadily In an intrepid exuberance. That slows the inane life You live, For long-stretching moments As you skip a heart-beat or two. And you forget what happens to the rained city-night that remains behind a mellow curtain of nameless grace.