Dust

Moondog in snowy moods, the leap of curling winds

brushes against the joyous veils of drunken passers-by.

The ramparts of night lay forsaken in winter white

painted a dismal orange under the halo of stark streetlight.

The sky torn by cascading pale dust, the mantel shrouded

in flowing frigid carpets where solemn autumn lay buried.

Starsailor of lamplit avenues, the northern gales lay stagnant

upon a frozen dock as the citrine orchard wavers no more.

The mahogany floorboard creaks from a trespassing dream

circling the poet's mind like a mislaid specter of inspiration.

The crystalline sidewalk of meandering footsteps now cloaked

in the slumber of January blizzards, a trinket of three a.m.