Her forked laughter gave no indication,
she wore no particular ermine to pledge her terrority..
Poems were broken into syllables
unsounded with scant intention,
her own vagueness  was affliction itself,
near darkness her bridgehead
this equivocal shadow
a balked performance in the making.

You've picked out a folio
and wished for a dream
yet the nib of your pen has ran dry,
like yesterdays thirst.
The bridgehead  that spanned
your momentary stride,
is someone else's iron cast certainty,
their vibe having read
the better book,
a change champion
more successfully ascribed.

Shades of Autumn
ply beneath the banquet
of a quilted leaves.

The skewbald sun,
our incandescent champion,
sketches and flows
across the silhouetted bridgehead