I rifled through the drawers of death.
I took back all my letters.
Death she never wrote me back.
She let me hang here ever.
I rifled through the drawers of death.
I took back all my letters.
Death she never wrote me back.
She let me hang here ever.
The leaves of all I’ve read
stir as I walk, reproach
me with their dryness, beg
to be tramped
under into something good.
A little man fried in oil
limbs in motion
stilled by the heat
Bugs unlike birds
do not flee my
innocent
port and shutter
I have troubled much
with death, have trod
with feet bigger
than all my life combined.
Stay me, Lord!
Hold me here to
pray like a tree.
The heart could use some
racking as well
Fries
decaf
Apple Bandit
Wasn’t the dividing line between
sea and sky, the endless horizon,
an image of the Trinity and of the
divine “economy” – laughing self-giving
in a game of rain and evaporation?
This question did not seem to be
chief on people’s minds.
I looked again. And then
left love for love and asked what was.
And Coke I did provide.
Not a leaf but one
has turned. Nor shall I.
I’ve quit the branch before.
Leads nowhere, but
what a sexy trail it is!