it’s a process

head tipped back and lens out of focus
i sip the last dregs of sunlight
from a summer fast fading,
etching her colors black-inked into tomorrow,
tracing my words into the wet cement of eternity.
my steps quicken to match the fall
of the leaves over old brick in the city’s
East end, my footfalls small
miracles of blurry substance in a brittle

but the words
just won’t flow like
they’re supposed; they start and they
stutter over roots in the sidewalk, getting lost in the
mutter of leaves and passing traffic and sometimes
when the light recalls just perfectly
the way it used to fall
through your bedroom blinds in
September’s late mornings, then
the muscles at the top of my throat
close up and in the sudden rush of air
that i swallow to
push the memories back

down into oblivion, they
vanish altogether,
leaving my shadow to
walk alone through the early October

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


opened eyes
to a blinking cursor,
blank page:
a winding-sheet for my
thoughts, wrapped up in
themselves, leaden;
inspiration, expired.
they keep carefully to the edges,
tiptoe around the truth
which threatens to hit
them like a gale, knocking the wind
right out of me, tormenting;
it was lack of
that brought us here
in the first place.