Saturday, April 21, 2012


Of lurid tales of turnabouts in accepted weather
Supply is rich in the addled heads of the young
And the morose alike, harrumphing under cover
Of aging and its private parts, whose crime was to approve
The fatal matrimony of mourning past delights
And driving one to love a wall. Heavy sunlight falls there
In its haste to outline the shadow behind the air's
Surprising anchor: a bark heard 'round the room
Of my animal consciousness, a reminder of the
Futility in any name. False enough to come apart
Like a molecule left on a dish after brunch
Following the night that broke to its tactfully
Shallow grave in the sky, the time is now to cry.