Untitled

his willing cigarette,
raw red on concrete,
her joy old.

End

evening looms like
our angry impression,
dead grass from morning
sees no blossom;
a monument to
summer smoke.

Bonfire

For the aweless;
our children.
Laptops, iphones,
forest fires on T.V.

Found Poem III

So travelers tell:
Women bore beacons
playing silent sounds,
their voices dying without a gust
like hums amongst the glimmering
and strengthless dead.

Found Poem II

When it was not clay,
when smoke stood up,
when the cherry hung with snow,
I picked a stone and
aimed it beneath the blue of day.
The bones of man,
the long road,
how idle and alone.

Found Poem I

What is it but a flower?
they hang us now
and bear the blooms away.