A morning so bright it’s white at the edges
holds his head in aches washes away at the walls of the trenches
Just a boy in a cobbler shop playing to his muse
Sewing men’s threads and pulling at rubber souls
Feeling a needle is not as sharp as it is dull
A metallic rust foamed in his workman’s sink
A trinket lay silently where only he could think to keep


An afternoon so gloomy it’s ripe like sweet trifles
A cold front sleeping across humid drowsy  tendrils
The treetops are trotted but not yet bare
The wind does not carry as much as it cares
A fermented love song torn in its callous drinks
The dream of the summer will fade in a week

A night so porous the skin yearns to breathe
The daily flick to an ashtray pins the beat of the city on a wreath
The street posts dare not glutton on as guidelines
The echoes don’t comfort as far as they try to hide
A pleasure in silent transfiguration of the dusk
A stalk so golden yet burdened to rot at the husk