At a desk, coffee sachets rest. Long-life milk harbours white dreams of expiry. Shuffling in his forgetful nest a grey man blinks at the intruding light.
Americo, do you remember your antique power, that opened like a rose on the walls of Hiroshima?
The mad November rain As dizzy as the days ahead of us How can we confess to nothing And own our mistrust of the morning Our comfort is our coffee Forecasting tomorrow’s meridians We are abbreviated dictionaries Silenced before the skies Of never-ending opinions We are the unstrung troubadour Mourning all his categories Lies are told endlessly Begging questions and memories More often than is really necessary
The glint in your eyes When I cupped your moons Was only a prelude To the gravitational pull Between two heavenly bodies Finally untethered From the chains Of solitary confinement
As I step through a small patch of woods this fine morning I feel the cold breath of Winter on my neck I catch a glimpse of a rabbit's white tail bobbing in and out of my sight It's Thanksgiving and this moment of near silence is not lost on me As I head back I pretend to be a woodsman following the last of Autumn's long shadows to a warm house that will soon fill of family and friends and I am grateful for it