I have slipped between the shadows,
beneath the watchful eye of night,
dancing in chiaroscuro,
a Whirling Dervish’s delight.
Having felt the ghosts lingering
in mnemonic desert perfumes,
haunting, the windblown mandalas,
I stroll as cactus flowers bloom.
In the flickering of starshine,
Night birds sing a mournful refrain
a song to make the Angels weep,
beseeching the moon to remain.
Distant and celestial altar,
rises and sets, waxes and wanes,
coaxing tidal exigencies,
the Poorwill crying out its name.
M. Zane McClellan
Copyright © 2016
All rights reserved