After Abstracts (edit)

Death departs
hand in hand with love. 
Sensing abandonment
time abdicates.

In the corners
of this room —
restless memory.

I ride my bike north on Weber Street. 
Afternoon sun
wears a tu-tu of clouds —
sambas with soul. 

Art

Typography becomes art;
words migrate from meaning
to the esthetic of existence.

Graphics, architecture, sculpture —
a line which commences on the Parkway wall —
skid mark ten feet from the ground.

Aural vision extrapolates, builds pages
of script into histories; the mind documents
with experience pen and speculation ink.

Random Conversation  

Sun smudged the Cortland, just beyond the deck
and I, turned away from you, witnessing how brick
can exist more steadfast than theology, enquired:  

Is there really such a thing as a poetic voice?  

Open a bottle of Petrus, you replied. Let it evolve 
tides across your tongue, then tell me what you experience.