My Hands Are Shadows

My hands are shadows,

    your hands are doves.

I dream of myself

in the mid-night

futility and insanity of

an uncomfortable half-sleep,

drowning in the

cool gravity

of the paradox

of human existence.

Giving up on sleep,

a walk around the grounds,

my heart beats

with an annoying insistence

as if it were

not my own.

The skies are confused

and seem to be

expecting something

from me.

The earthy smells

of farm animals

rise and contrast with

the sweet aromas of the

perfectly formed roses

out in the night garden.

Barn cats chase and kill

the small, living things

that populate the nooks

of this rural Burgundy farm.

It's 3AM, and the galaxy of stars

over Beaune

is as sharp and perfect

as any I have seen

since wandering the Mojave

years ago.

My mind is a shadow,

contracting and collapsing

under the sharp points

of the sky.

Earlier I saw rainbows

    the size of small moons.

Tomorrow I drive to Paris

    burning like a comet.