Night's hours gathered slowly at my chair delayed to stare
as each conferred upon the next I was still.
The hour of doubt crept in a shroud for me fear
a storm to tremble in the hour of remorse so reticent to leave.
Memory gave Judas' kiss desire an empty cup to parted lips.
At the edge of dawn the morning stars do fade I saw
an amber line on distant hills weak before the vow of dawn was made.
In that final hour only you.
Before what light could prove
gathered round the hours of my days whispered hushes
rustling as crowds do in cinemas and concert halls.
Then only you
the one I fell on spent a scent breathed in
out object of my touch the parts of you
the wish to hide the night in you.

I came up the way that grew in shadow looked a tender shoot
but bent pushed through the freeze line in a killing frost
arisen first among its peers then hardened. Taught the way of walking
easy in bad men some can tell some left their teeth
on daddy’s knuckles. Knocked around until the eye is hard
moved unmoving like a gun recoils in a hand
even yet too small to sign a name.
I came up beside the tracks on stacks of plates
washing my way up riverboat stacks sleeping in the hulls
among dark men on plates of iron
in grimy weight pits torn down and built again.
Built again by Virgil in his tongue Cicero
the Caesar too of Gallic Wars blind Homer’s tongue
of Iliad and Odyssey. By Beethoven. By Bach.
By symphony of gun and pen bare knuckle brawls poverty
ghosts of the ****** murderers victims haunts of the poor
ways of the poor addicted captured by my sky my clouds
the mist and mystery of my own personal life.
In late hours dark skies clouds pass almost unseen
yet there the secret conundrum what have they wrought
where they have been? What are they coming to?

I heard the sounds of locomotion
and a whistle's plaintive cry
of weakness, but the wheels were turning.
Steel on steel the sole reply.

The sounds of force accelerating
rhythmically as drums would play
recalled a light and tender time,
though made of steel the permanent way,

when near a depot long abandoned,
waiting for a passing train,
a child would sit alone for hours
just to hear the steel refrain.

I heard the sounds of locomotion
carrying a longing man
with freight and cargo to a place that
rails of steel alone could span.

Less is more.
Less is
Less

Death perched on a rotten fence clothed in Autumn colored quills
in the ancient pens that storied him in the colors of the fields
in the costume of a Cooper's Hawk slowly laid his eyes of stone
on me. Neither could I move nor stay an arm's reach
great and awful silence he commands living things gone
still as death itself is still. And this he deigned to show me
did not flinch fierce and fearless marked me with his eyes
of stone. This - a muscular stretch of wings untiring. This -
the sharp sure weaponry of death. This - endless curiosity
searching seeking sanctuaries never locked hides thrown open
shadows laid to rest. And this - an intellect uncaring cold
science mocked congeniality of birds societies lost
to appetite ceased by fear. Or is it better angels
gave the knowledge of prey to such as these what I
will not admit:
Hawks carry us away.
We will not return.

We were serene at a coffee house in the antebellum.
Vanilla latte plain dark roast art in pastel chalks
of little sense to me you drawn to impermanent faces
on the wall. Mix match tables of twos of easy people
odd numbers we fitted in conversation and caffeine.
That's all. You said in your breathless way more than I
ebb you flow a lyric of banal and small notes
where I place listening sounds looking in your eyes
without shame. Strange calculus by which memory is sad
sides of an inscrutable equation aspiration love
quiet hours loss longing I saw coming in your eyes
did not look away but went straight in.
Your car ran fine money was still the problem.
Never touch your hair. Just for me - long, wild, ebony.

Insincere December sun promised warmth
never given, the look of warmth cruel beauty,
the icy stare of soft hazel eyes, the cold touch
of clean hands. Light holding long nails of ice
dripped promised release too little to drink more
to move me out from under eaves by pokes and stings.
There I caught you in my arms a brief until when.
Your hand slid to my stretched finger tips and waved.
I looked you to your car off the lot up the street
you contacting even then the busy phone not meeting
eyes seeing me in bright light with no warmth.
Hands shoved in coat pockets denim hugged cold enough
to leave I stayed past your depart and why?
Something as if said the logic of December
is the folly of Spring. The art of glass imprisons
ghosts haunts possessed what is and is not real
desired both. The art of ice, the realization of thirst
cool captured drinks raised past reach.
Even then I knew, and sought you nonetheless.