Poetry

Rusting Off the Wind.

See them smile, see them smile,
Impression, lipless patches percolating
Footfall in the mist, there was no trace.
All worthwhile, and I durst to look down.
Oh, what a miff

Thank You.

I hear the rattling, the ticking, and my Grandfather’s tinnitus (perhaps not),
All the unheard aspects now, so therefore make a wish,
Just one, and only one. For the evening had already set,
As I waited for you—(and I near turned) all the timbre from your state, I sat down,
Drank a cup of water, and I fluttered all over to make that very call.
That tone, the sight of perception, not dozing on Winter’s fracture,
That slung branch gone and lost, dying in a day

Once Born.

There the death of the red, there the death of the wind,
And here is a, nonetheless, word spoken,
By the life it feels and here is life.

The Fall of Patois.

For that estuary wept, with its mouth tapering,
Tapering into wrinkled sheets and disturbing,
Disturbing the transgressions of sense (and sense display us)

December.

Winter deceived once again, child, there is no snow,
That pokerish linen interlaces rocks and stardust;
May it bring the recherché in the form of an old voice, an old friend.