The dots of day hang lightly together,
and a tender rain leaves a purple dew.
The air is thick with the deep fragrance
of a million tiny homeless pets,
an intimate now, a mutant force,
to natural efforts turn and grab
as unconceived pools and voids
lose their membrane of death.
Surfaces that lightly mingled,
erotically twinged at finity,
have warped, withered, decomposed,
succumbed to winter's legacy --
tides of evening forfeit gold
no longer beam a revelation --
the fetal pose of concentration
seeks an infinite hibernation,
demands spontaneous generation.