poem ex nihilo

we burn
as the sun sets.

i am watching smoke curl,
feeding sticks into the flames
one by one by one, searching
the shapes of autumn’s shadow

for a metaphor fragile
enough to carry trust
in its silky, river-
fed palms;

for the words to drip
down your open-mouthed
throat like a benediction
and swallow naked, like a sword;

for the way silent twilight
fills the negative space
and becomes a poem
ex nihilo.

Your Metaphor

 

 

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These days weather
changes overnight.
Smoke filters sunlight;

embers burn all
the more brightly
for the silenced

desire. Yellow
maple sky, old
cracked oak

carpet over grass
that hasn’t even
yet been born.

Dewed frost gilds
homecoming
mornings,

words like
“hunker”
sprouting in

untried accents,
“distrust” burying
its lips in glowing

ash. A hand
can be a hard
thing to hold

in such climes;
fingers all too
easily balled in

anger. Memory
just won’t burn
as quickly as leaf-fall

and faithlessness
doesn’t pass
with the dew.

post-modern urban landscape, no.1

Mono-
chromed skies tie
summer’s bedraggled
kitestrings to the end of
a brief September.
Below on the corner,
yet another dark-
dressed unkempt
with cardboard
calling card:
HUNGRY.
Gooseflesh takes
more heat to burn.
Calories, I mean:
it’s getting cold.
Everyone you know
a paycheck away
from the next street over,
and the days
only getting shorter.
How will he eat
with so many
unthawed
colleagues?