Shadow

Genesis by omission
of light and weeded
words.  And shaped into
a memory, the small nick points
tumbling through an almost
recognizable landscape.

Like when the wordless sun
consumed two hours between
wine at four and the battle of six.

So much uninterpreted noise.

Some Mornings

The tickle sun along
the backbone of a dream is
not enough, nor is the
hum-drum chatter of birds

bivouacked in back yard spruce

enough against the weight of
words, the viscous spine
caged supine by ghostly bars

of memory.  No longer
enough, no longer the
musculature to heft each
syllable and pan for nuggets. 

 
No longer a realization, rather
just another moment in
the press, the juice extracted,
exhibiting a hint of remorse, with

a solid backbone of travail and
a long, fading finish of regret.

We Create

In the solitude of pen,
the structure of sentence, we
create.  And every idea is sand —
reconsideration variable, tide,
the work of wind in hallways,
meeting rooms, the voices howling
across the bones of truth;
the bones restive and resolute
with the power of a reality
set in stone.  As though there is
permanence in stone.  Speak
with any sandbar at the
terminus of a river and it will
tell you tales of the days when
it was rock, the cliff face,
the terminus of time’s advance.