Platform B

If only we could walk

Outside the patterns of our thought.

To mark the train's old stops.

To sell the tickets we have bought.

Weather Vane

Spectral edges meet

Deep within the heights;

Drawing every searching eye.

Whispered hints descend a moving sky.

Weather vane,

Plot the course.

The breeze is spirit.

And word the source.

Feel again

Without your skin.

The body is not a vessel.

Lips and tongue, 

Shape my breath.

Flesh is housed within soul's expression.