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Volume 9, Collected Poems, 2013

Available for Purchase

Published by AuthorHouse®

A myth may be one hand clapping,
a burning bush;

a rooster
crowing three times at dawn;

clear light turned suddenly to dapple,
fish freed from bowls:

these are dreams that by men are ignored,
so that, more and more,
ignorance
is the spittle men lick,

just as dogs lick sores.

At an ephemeral seep in the desert,
I drink face down
in the darkness of early morning.

The sand is warm.

With sun, red ants will be swarming,
then birdgs will come
and lizards and snakes,

no rabbits.

Others talk about earthquake and wind.

I am thinking sand, season after uncertain season
where it's always dry

because there's so little love
and so many reasons.