glaring strobing lightning,
(like paper ships in glass bottles)
boisterous flailing madmen,
you engaged elsewhere in an
uproarious conversation;

somehow i grew so taciturn.
on back porches and inbetween
evenings spent reading in
the cold, i guess i knew.

if i see your
gold rimmed self
smiling towards me in
these rotting halls,

i know then that
i am awake
and i bristle and foam
and ache to take your hand

& stretch these wings
(god knows if they will fly)
through the canvas of
these high white ceilings

for now, though
it is minor rebellions
miniature coups d’état

until again smilingly
sauntering,
i see you