excepting summer storms
few ravaged peaks drawn blank by Tomlin, trenchant, torrential.
She, the lurid lark of brown cavernous carrion, the perpetual
gash in his rotten mouth,
She doled out fortunes in late autumnal graveyards. strewn
with the rubble of myriad mountains yet to be, and
littered with unearthly bones,
warring, wicked wayward
She eked out sentences, judge jury, executive.
The wood remembers the tree and longs to move again.
the floor kissed, lip and tongue, under the feet
of a quarter-sawn man, checked
This is the sound of the future
methodical chopping dicing, separation of consumables
punctuated by a slight but
beep. only a blip but hot and remote as the reminder
of distant suns
omnipotent reminder of canisters of oxygen exhaling
safely flooding lungs and stoking
that lick around little hearts
the traffic whoosh of asteroids outside – in space-
she passed an elderly asian man in mesh pocketed vest
wearing a cold and jade ring but missing the
on the first finger of his left hand.
he looked about, sitting on his crate, his throne,
tapping his umbrella to the ground as if it
who rides the uptown train early on a sunday evening
besides lovers and forlorn souls
alike only in their vacant stares at trash that wheels about
wandering thoughts of both
things found and lost
they told him, you look as though a thinner
fragment of your father.
the father sat impassively, wielding those
meaty thighs of middle age,
next to the mother, adorned in innocuous
decorations, a reddish-orange but lacking the vitality
of her youth, a ripened fruit that is devoid of juice.
this dried apricot echoed words and inched
off into the periphery.
is it the ground that feels hollow