Our lives evaporating as we talk,
flypaper from cosmic ceiling--
We gather stardust,
mnemonics, perhaps,
re-arrangers of mystic twigs
into a pattern.
Look to the sky,
les nuages, l'ombre
les arbres alla primavera
"magnificio", said I
with real relish &
snap of ring-encrusted fingers,
distant God, not quite Himself,
behind a podium exiting the band shell.