Music blooms in the glistening
storm like a reflection
upon the surface of a window
stained in libations of twilight –
purple and darkening orange.
Secretly a man exceeds
his costume and predicts
a renaissance of authenticity
to come staggering forth from
the shut eyes of infants.
Slow droplets of song arrange
in irregular patterns upon
my hair sauntering into the furrows
of my forehead, and beneath
an awning I spread
a haphazard flame
in my Jean-Paul Sartre eloquence
coat, discarding a series of names
to the parade of traffic
and with them, bits of myself.
-r. miller
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