TIME IS SUCH A POROUS STONE
Soft spring snow reminds
The waiting heart that winter’s
Wind wilts with the bloom..
THE LOVE OF DARK THINGS
Somewhere between the light and substance
I search for clues.
Uncertain tools
In uncertain hands
And where are you?
No art can be so riddled
No love without demand
crestfallen meadow
buoyantly, goose feathers float
sorrowful pumpkins