A Windows Machine

Clouds stained and stretched

Like overlapped, pulled thin

Butterfly wings pinned

Around the rolling-silk,

Last-light-of today sun

As it leaks to pale skins after

Sheets of April-vengeance hail.

I’m sitting at a windows machine

Wondering if I can believe the numbers;

Take the cold carborundum pressures.

Here, I truly believe, we could plant,

Could surely grow, might sustain Paradise:

Legacy, pass-along gardens that would

Proudly carry standards out of history

… into the future.

The Violet Distance

In the violet distance

Sand eats the sun again;

Soon cold-rock peace

Will settle horizon’s disputes.

Bad-company hero

Told me (years ago)

The sky is burnin’.

I believe – in this

Desert land of faiths –

I begin to understand.

A little bit of desolation

Is desirable on

Access Action Strasse … and

Some minutes with angels

Will weave silk

For the soul.

 

14/10/2012