ebb and flow


it was a
quiet torture.
sudden dyings
and small footsteps in
quick-drying sand;
soughing behind windows;
pestilential dreamings:
if one were to cry
out, none would
answer, but

if anyone should ask,
i left in search of a muse
to make even my despair
sing; i
don’t know when i’ll be
back.

intranquil

my desperation isn’t quiet
but goes yowling straight through
to the other side of winter with her foot
pressed to the floor;
a seeping solace with every mile north until
she finds the cold that
numbs the hole in her chest,
hope in gaping oblivion;
kicks then
back feckless by the window at street level two
blocks above the flood line, exhaust-
stained plate glass a membrane
between art and the river which could
carry her away.