Grey

Thin, quiet and

Slow, so-slow

That strip of ghost-near land

‘Tween fog-roll banks and

God-dark’d limits of Heaven.

Wearing grey coat, grey mood

I am disquieted observer –

Intruder perhaps –

Unable to decide whether

Light and season

Are approaching

Or leaving

The stage.

There is glory

Both in the winning

And the giving away.

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The Madness Rations

With all the delightfully tempting deliberation

Of the sensuous midnight dance, they

Pour their whiskey’d coffee shadows

Into the urban canyon streets.

Honest-to-God light,

As though, silently screaming,

Seeking to escape upwards.

Leaves from ground level,

Now are the panther-hours,

The time of warm-chocolate promises,

Bitter honeys with secret pillows;

The secret language of  darkened doors:

The madness-rations we take

In order to plead sanity.

 

We Could Have … ?

The first night?

A different night?

The last night?

The only night?

A different night?

And who would have thought

We could have flown so high,

Got so far; fragile bone frames

Wrapped in simple rags?

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