Sky the color of a well-oiled gun barrel. Geese pass in ragged Vs singing.
At 4 a.m. the moon clarified like an ancient script on papyrus. Frost grew flowerish on fallen leaves. What am I that insists on specification?
Yesterday's apples are today's cider and today's cider makes everyone smile. Who longs for allies remains friendless.
The willow tree near the air strip slowly extends the range of its tears. Mallards sleep lightly in brittle reeds. I pass quietly, still a threat.
It is hunger that mandates the idea of feasts. We linger over definitions as if playing at solutions matters more than finding one that works.
Your hand in mine remains one objective. Others find shells near the ocean. That particular hell and no other.
The mail often smells of lavender. A poem is neither lantern nor map.
We fall weeping and each tear is a kind of repetition. A prism separates what is light into what we call beautiful. I mean you reading, me writing.
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