April 2009

The soil I’m walking over comes   

from deeper: a fire had done it in,   
a stewpot had suddenly popped   
and its contents streamed   
out wave over wave until   
it reached the water, until the sea   
called it a day and struck back   

with a counterwave. Stony nightblack   
dreambarren...

Night eats color,   
Flower bouquets lose their fake ornaments.   
Day falls into the leaves like sparkling fish   
And struggles, like the lowly mud,   
The shapeless dreams and trees   
Nurtured outside this shriveled, deridable despair.   
And the space that was chopped down   
Tickles the weeds there by its...