why are you so easy
to be walk passed
but then so difficult
to completely forget

a cattle brand that
sears waking memory
scathes dreams of night
what remains of you

are rumpled bed-
clothes at sun-up
and crumpled sheets
on litter-strewn desk

give up shallying; on finding and sharing
what could be thought of as inner beauty
when these hirsute thoughts bristle again
berating what little of self regard remains
it’s but an exaggeration to point out hate
when clearly it wasn’t my poem but myself
that lay on literature’s butcher-block altar

for whom threadbare scraps
are treasures under your table
deserts, ever undulated dunes

in picture-book perfect gales

stripping away like sandpaper
perhaps the sting of salt rain
shall sterilize this wanting within

think of me, of us, some time
bandying of thoughts will do
let them sidle up close to you
just as we did not so long ago

then come and gaze again at

the light residing in my eyes
then tell me if your reflection
shines with crystalline truth
some time, think of us, of me

a lonely light
shall be the only
one to shine upon
a poorly lit spot
until its image
reveals a well
hidden spark

Right in front of the koban
Star-B’s cramp and crammed
Not for the presently starving
Perhaps not or the Summer
With its heat reflecting tiles
Where else is boxed contentment?
But where it’s found in a moment.

Here again, there again;
Staring at an empty page
Like a wait for a balloon 🎈
To pop 💥 as it rises high
Up it goes into the sky ☁️
In the end we won’t find
Out, nor shall we ever -
Never been that clever.