Names and faces visit in foggy times
pausing on the edge of placid dreams
where the Muses come to bathe
in the half-light—long lost characters
who’ve grown old or shed the weight of flesh
to move more freely now towards clarity,
ephemeral moments without words,
but with quiet wonderment instead
reflected in our eyes. There may be
another plane, another row of seats
above to watch the show with easy
exits when the drama gets too thick,
when hateful hearts want war. I hope so.
It would be hell to have to witness
the slow disambiguation of the future.
drycrikjournal 
indeed
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