in the pause

in the pause where the unsure
is the curious sun funk moon
driven into pools of us… where our tomes-
have dust mites, caroling to forbidden
holidays on the cusp of discontinued
birthdays… like a wasp in a clot
of papier negate-
maiche.

and themes are the jokes
that uncork flowers in your dome
where the love you came from
answers back and nothing is dominion
and all is some uncomfortable bliss
in between the corridors
of an afternoon
well spent with shadows
you recall.