Too Many Triangles

The evening tastes blue, something celestial and oceanic. The coolness has traces of snow left inside it, but there is something else too. I can't see, my eyes are too tired from the tyranny of geometery. Our lived are full of too many angles, too many straight lines. Can't sleep because I've got indigestion from eating too many triangles.
Pavements, buildings, offices, the walk to work and back. Even sleep is too ordered, and my dreams are full of things not done, things not remembered, and things that slip away.
I concentrate on twilight again.
There is something vast here, an arctic relief - fragments and snapshots of haunted summers - trees at the edge of the field in a metal breeze - under constant blue skies - the wind through the wheat, a winding path.
I long to disappear here, fall into that moment of falling to sleep -balancing there- for ever.
(the sound of a flute,
 the sound of singing, across a secret pool of water, at dusk,
 picking blackberries in haunted places
 a boat drifting)