Thomas Lowe Taylor -- TYPE

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...you with the sureness of time itself. And where love is the anchor and the glue, you have somehow forgotten where you stacked the paper. She is there at the window, singing a song you haven't heard for a long time. The sound of your heart beating one and two, like something from the polka king on a Saturday night, counting off the days between now and the future.

Red and orange and blue and velvet and lace are the colors and textures of the sign which follows you into the void without pity or regard; in the particular moment of the sun beaming through your eyes, you illuminate all that falls before you with the essence of your own questioning, and where the poem leads into the nature of the choice, you feel a pull as you throng forward into the presence of your own sensations; and as love illuminates a moment in your heart where you reach outward and into the gloom, you find time itself framing the signs of the hours glowing beyond the generations and finalities as the ultimate statement of what went on inside you before you thought about it all; and in the silence of your own questioning, you hear the march and song of the forgotten aliens coming up out of the ground in front of the house, out in the driveway where the new doghouse seems to have grown larger in the night and where footsteps begin to crunch and growl at the onset of the formation of the new hours and seasons in their own insistence and passion. You grow in the dimensions of your own question and flash forward into the new from the status of your passing; here is a forgotten language expressing itself in your new beginnings, here is a light you didn't notice before glowing in the skin of your own desire.