I’m oil, life is water.
I’m a stain on the tarmac,
a slick spot to catch fate unawares.
I’m not the doer, but the done;
not the message, but the voice,
modulated by frequency or amplitude,
not so much indifferent
as bemused, not unaware
but naked in a world of secrets.
There are songs of hawks
and poems about eagles
but never starlings
An old sassafras tree
pushes reluctant leaves
out into spring
Water and sky indecisive,
light flitting around corners,
thunder mumbling curses,
a low energy kind of day
I recall a day exactly
like this, so long ago,
when we walked between the drops
to the 10th Street Pool Hall
to lay our fortunes down
on the Steepleton tables,
greener than any pasture,
leather pockets yawning.
Entire lives were spent
and measured in racks of nine;
I still hear the clack
between the thunder claps.
In the end, we walked out the door
pockets empty, hearts full,
into the long shadows
of the waiting sullen universe.
Migraine erupting
bright, bright daggers are piercing
kaleidoscope eyes
exiles child 