So many words between us—
The caustic breech of abatement, ruin
Runs atonal, in recitals of indifference,
How even the ****** birds now sound
Discordant and rain crushes as it falls,
Ballistic.

The pinprick stars are merely eyes
Undraped to the worn soul's veil
And gorgon time roils setting our feet
In the crust of wishes and delusions
Kept.  

The bullet riddled skies in absence
Of colour are but particulates of lime
To the moonless night.  Words have no
Eyes, they can only finger.

O the sorrows of the untouched—
The cruelty of the sightless and bent blind,
Drab vermillion stars felled like forced tears.

Petals of flower—
Impossible freshness, breaks day,
Her eyes opening.

I do not envy the man about town,
The shackle suit and morning groom,
The campaign of papers and style,
Whose work a day is but a futile way
And each choice is ruin to the heart.

The pill shaped tables of the board rooms,
Where ink is blood and flesh is facsimile,
Caged in by the cubicle, lets in no breeze,
Only the still air of stifle, encased.
What dreams may die in this dullness  
Of days?
          There is a ringing that will not  
Cease.  There are stalls by the staples, there is  
No peace.  And time is warden either side  
Of the glass doors and with mercenary feet  
And closed eyes he makes his stand, he makes
His choice, he sets his gait, chimes in lock step,  
His voice is hoarse, and all his salary days  
Are trojan.  
  
        No, I do not relish the dog  
Eat dog, nor the barking toes that step so low,  
Even lower than the hangman's boom.  For like  
A slug crossing a busy street he does not fear  
The tread.  He does not know these sounds are clink.  
His thoughts are trapped in folders read, and with  
Mobile cells his ears are pinned and grating-micro-
Waves well cancer to his brain.

Mirror, tears in eye,
Her picture by bed,
No light in night sky,
Even moon is silent.

The sea gulls— who fly in wanton
To the horizon, are a spirits
Calling, are sea songs falling
To my mind they falter— as I
Have known such cozen to the sun
That falls each day nor do I see
It rising.  My world is weighted,
Under, pass the lining of the quick,
By the mounted cloud which hangs silver
Over the plated night. The owl,
Whose eyes of Janus tails, when wanes
The lids, tied to crescent holey
Whelm of malevolent moon,

Praise over me, with wooly wings,
Is silent as shadow.  I may strut or run
But they do come as the shadows will
With cahooting sun, and the blotting
Bald faced moon, chiaroscuro—
The days feign and heaven pales under
The wake of the luna sea.

       In darkest daylight
I shamble toward the flat horizon
Where the seabirds fly, till their ends,
I take two-faced my faulty comfort
As I see them, falter, falling, yet never
Do they touch the gloaming ground.

Raven haired woman—
Bathes in lake with sinking moon,
Black swan drowning light.

In a flower field—
Blue irises, tendril hairs,
Saw her disappear.

Coastal mist and mountains blue as ache—
Troubled waters in midair, streaming across
Such mirage of openness and tangled range,
When will the gathering skies sing me aloft?

In the dark room
Sparks fire—
Whispers of the sun
And silence blankets the sky,
I was born amongst the ruins
Of gentleness and wounded love,
By the dug kurgans of the Amazon,
The brands of rains ever burning
And foils of hope, fated, turning,
An outer beast eyes and howls,
The merciless stars ever sweep
And cowl in coldest sparkle flame,
Merest minded words, fainted, stab,
Drop in the down volumes of space
Evaporating under the brooding
Mortal emptiness.