Can't see the dawn
from the angle of dusk
Even harder to believe--
it could see me?
Why would sunrise care about its setting?

“I think you'd hafta be flyin', er sumpthin'

Maybe if I banked a 180
gazing into that new east?
Okay--

I know it's not

I could still see the reflections
of where it was
of warmth and color where it used to be?
Okay--

...and now I'm just the warmth of the reflected
disorientation

--*******, that poetry-killing six syllable word!

Ya wanna pass that joint
before I land this heap without My wheels down”

On Sunday’s Canvas
our footprints sketch a path
across the sand.
Out of focus, others dot the beach.
Hands drawn tightly together,
our talk ebbs and flows.

This is Sunday’s Cove,
the rim where rivers end and tell their stories.
Afternoon sea and sky run together until
we are surrounded by what we feel.
Sand shines in a festive way.

Here at the edge of the world,
night is celebrated with wine in a water glass.
Beyond the surf, we do not hear the silence.
We wake every morning to brush new paths.

Does the rose care
that no one is there?

before the last
of the light is gone
crickets