The past—
moth-wings, dust-thin,
dissolving at touch—
markings
worn thin
as river stones,
voices replaced
by the wind—
only faint rustles
remain—
blended into
the silence of time—
who remembers
the hands
that built
the forgotten roads,
the scratch
of ink
before it dried
on a forgotten parchment.

Somewhere,
a hand
once carved truth
into stone—
now the rain
speaks of it
but no one listens.

oil pond mirrors the darkness the november

day                  sun draws white against the grey

this       leaf  lays on earth

there is no god

not hungry nor otherwise



you look at me straight and ask the past

and briefly I say & say there is no god



you did not smile nor shout you are the deadest thing

dead down .              no smiling  despite birds gone  by



on greasy wings                       .i remember your look

your face

drawn grey as mourning doves

that remind

for me there is no god

Oh how
The classifying mind

Reclaims-

Renames

The unruliness of being-

Loosens worm with
Incisive *****

For black-bird
To swoop

For the briefest hour
You caught my breath-

My dioxide moistened
Your eyes
Soothing.

For a small moment
Hurly Burly
Slowed-

A headlong rush
To oblivion

Became a Jaunt

heart of sadness
follows the eyes
of madness
into the scream of night.

who dares to dream
in a starless night?

war and peace then war and love

and all nightmares are real
staring into

a starless night,

and all we have
are the flames
stolen from a screaming night,
and all we have are each other.

Beneath the arch,
        among the branches,
      the maunder of her eyes
           finds noir in an afterimage,
every reflection is unique,
    explicit and indivisible,
        every reflection is her,
      there she looks close
       for gracefulness,
            in the essays of her skin
               and their brazen transparencies,
         she enters into her body fable,
      the shape of her resembles
           the tenor viol: where it widens,
                  where it narrows,
                where it digresses
              and monochromes,
           she reflects a fragile geography,
             a soft cargo, but
               an inkling of hurricane,
             rendering the fault lines
          beautiful and strong,
       in supplication tomorrow's explorer
will disturb the patterns
   until she's become her own lullaby

Old battered hat
Skin of my skin

Over the years
We have become the same