Part the first

Off from splintering wishes comes the pain that it won't return. Found amid the oil stain'd water mildew willow leaves steeping gray. Head down as always and only half a mind for sight, I'm rushing against conclusions i must face. Narrow against the falsehoods the rain begins to break. Off a few minutes It's coming into view, cold and cubist against cyclone suburban skys. In measures I'm holding on but there are no songs today.

White Flag

There is a light running threw the plum trees far up the street, breaking against winter frost mornings, gold on bark and slumber. Nearer wash the road ways ablaze with hope and free. Lined with low end housing that glare through iron grates. And fences that I peer in walking, through slats at unmowen wildwood yards that rust in mystery, and what little I see.

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