Wednesday, June 15, 2011

brownglass flarefoil

courting a high
a westward drive
a sunshade wards the setting eyes
charming a low
a southern grove
a sunset parry, the evening grows.

Friday, June 10, 2011


steeped in evening
sepia air
amber tapestry
weaven hair
collapsing at the stair.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011


barely june and new york's trees
already moulting brittle leaves.

Sunday, June 5, 2011


he stumbled upon a salt stream
bubbling from a duct spring
into a gaping mouth sea.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

the detachment stands to

I stepped into the day with hope, and now that it is evening my spirits have sunk with the drunken sun - hereafter I drink to the flush moon and the flagging tide.

That black sentence laid alone on the face of a page for more than a span as the man who typed it stared off, stared away, his fingers perched just above the grimy keys he poked when he wrote it - ten bleary lookouts, jaded by vigil, turning themselves yellow with slow smoke, weary, awaiting BMNT.