If it were chalk
that were published
on scriptured paper
I would chose black
I would chose greasepencil
those passages
run ruinous with rain
and soaked in the
silence
This dead of winter
that settles quiet
as the snow
brief like a little black
cat on her rounds
Nothing but the trundle
of plows
The landing of aircraft
far on the hilltop
plateau to the North

Chains each year like
a link the small distance
that grows

The black haunt in the
wind of the heavy birds
that call from the tower
tops
The lonely distant lake
melting in the snowfall
and mists
on a chilled steady
morning crashed from
a dream

Islands of mystery
we emerged
delving upon the same
beach
swimming in the same
waters
with hardly a mention
of whom we know
the personas like
plans
we move the moves
like peices on a board

Wings of dark in a night
sky
when the fretful commotion
of a day erases
and a new paragraph
is etched in upon the
other poems
till there's nothing
of semblance but
the static grey
Overcast and toiling
in winds of gravity

Glorious rushes
the banners of
spring drenched
in soliloquays
beyond the screen
the wistful blinds
talking in the
gusts of breezes
in limbs fresh with
new life

The years rose like
a reservoir
thin then deep
the images flashed
like a strobe
their echo in the
eyes like the gentle
snow that fills the
steps
that crawls its
design sculpted
beautiful and haunted
in the ruins of dawn
watery and wanting

Spirits of summer
pressed into the
pockets
hung in shirts
waiting in sweaters

footsteps in the
warm new grasses
bending with thoughts

I emerge from dreams
to the same corner
and take my road

watching you step
down yours
till your an illusion
weaving with all
the potent magic
and beautiful
havoc

...