Dec 21, 2010
I feel for the crow.
It picks at a vague lump, a dead fish, perhaps,
locked in the ice congealing along the riverbank.
With every touch of winter's breath, the bird’s tail flicks,
its wings moving as though fanned to life as a dark flame,
illuminating this place of watery hardness, of poisoned sustenance,
of requiem birds.
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 18, 2010
Bury me in a secret grave,
in the white sands of an absent sea,
in the warm waters of a summer rain.
And when the sea returns,
and I drift, revealed,
may the manatees lick my bones,
and gather me up in their mermaid arms.
Oct 7, 2010
I won’t go back to the ashen hillswhere the shattered donkey died.A premature sacrifice,just another dead donkey.
I won’t go back to the echoing walls.A falcon streaks below,and above, the crows.
I won’t go back to the broken hills of Judea,and who shaped the ruined gardens,to drift among the earthly cyclamen clouds?
I know of those gardeners and their lovely gardens.
I won’t go back to the ghosts of Nabi Musa,or to the springs, descending with my heart,to the bitter, shrinking sea.