The razorblade of wind has cut the lisping night
And sent the sun up
In the east
The mountains idle glowing
In morning's sundust storm
I see the restless leaves reflecting seas of light
As tiny trembling mirrors
But in my mind will rest
The pitch- black sea with roads of boatlights
And pale Old Man as from a Tarot card
His wizard smile
In still and tender dark
In rustles of shadows
The Moon
       The eye of daytime action
                     the
                          tor
                              n­a
                                  do

04/2003

Six tongues in my mouth
Six minds in my mind
Six knives in my back
Six bullets.
Each tongue wants its turn
Each mind wants its way
Each knife wants a hand
To pull it.

Slow snowflakes, idly sifted over bridges
Can't cover lead-gray river running still
Rare works of art, brittle stars of airy frill
Melt silently on waves or heap on icy ridges.

The wind holds each and tosses at its will;
Each flake alone, in snowstorm wall unseen
Flies, falls, and vanishes -- as well as never been
For ever more burst down from toiling mill.

This twilight snowstorm time to think what wakes
Frail, fleeting beauty seen in people, clouds, and flakes.