Early dark.

In our face like waves, receded with flickers
That are evasive in our bones with ferity
Void of discovering dreaming, these fluencies
In evocative tremors, prospering the pigweeds
In the fallen dusk arcs upon the belts of snow,
Appearing to crawl, swaddled within a darkroom
In the depths of your mind

A Red Hyacinth.

And I fall before the red branches, frail, wholly upon the utter stone that reared none for blood-sake,
And I kneel before the laughter and its fever, and its pride,
From before the evening of the distant fire among the blackened ocean, a beige fog,
Which lured me alone,
I called out to you

A Winter Sere.

And I will wake from frail calls, lonely, enkindled by the breeze.
I will wake in silent hope that glares its rays upon a sere trunk,
As gently a shadow passed through that made me say of this Podunk,
“Alone, brighter than the starlit partings, tides you a dream

Oh, Dream.

And I rest my hands on the twilit moorland on the river’s expanse as I plea
“For the love of God!” in a tunneling light, haunting laughter.

Morning Snow. (Prose)

I feel the strangeness of the fire arose from the bejeweled brooks, and faded, golden rivers, strung by the heat, I wander as the ocean meets the shore and I go into the peaks of the world

I’ll Keep. (Prose)

my torrent of blood flourishes like a blue weeping violet, rock-strewn to the near hill-side at midnight; I pardoned myself to the wall flowers as the wind vanishes above the chimneys with the grotesque sticky saps on the creaks of spotted ghosts


Light, midnight,
On moorlands, summoning fate,
Alone, viceroys break
Every pretty tear that rises

Where Does It Leave?

Will you be by the river? My shadow stays.
What would it leave to the torn skin where lights retreat?
As I wonder, I know it will be away.

A Northern Wind.

I kneel towards thin estuaries and darken the shawl with pearls
The northern river kneels, beating pearls,
As the shawl darkens in the ghoul of silence in the wind.


Winter beats the cold orchids into the wind that is frail as bone,
Where memory passed darkly as the ocean-white dream
That is the faint mesa that trails of rocky red in the sun-set,
Which is the winter mid-dream on a night of silence, my sorrow again,
That will dwell in faint winds during the late dawn
Blinded by the hyacinth that gave silence within the moorland

The Rivers of What I Can’t Forget.

As the petals of the red, blanketed flowers that would speak to us in bloom
Would fall dead at the bed of falling leaves that holds the lost womb of the willow tree,
That lovely stem from leaf where no river should pull along the tusks of ground,
And it should not break away from a frail dream. Why, must it be the river stream,
That curls along the frosted beams of the old axletree where it will be dried by the fog,
Where it will surrender to the slippery tears on a marred charcoal rock,
That has moss on it with little sticks, little sticks. It was a cold night.

A Wildflower Dream.

Shines above, the light that finds
The sea’s protest and the dream of a wildflower,
Where the trees of death were made with patted seeds

Dusk Alone.

The weaved hung warmth of vernal flame,
That which kissed upon the tears through
The hollowed smoke, which turns the eve.