Slipping Poem by Thomas Hooker

Slipping

Red filaments of sun, going down
there's a quiet voice saying nothing,

the sky holds the feathery moon softly,
rising gold from the opposite horizon,

sometimes I feel myself falling,
slipping out of time, passing through

the night clouds, drifting into moonshine,
passing lovely blues for grays,

folding petals into milk and bone,
where did we go, turning secrets

into marble, glistening limestone,
I do not know my age, or the time

of deposition, under our sun,
revisiting matter, fine as it is.