lose at the mind placed
to one side
entrapper of tales, a trumpet
flower-tree
being easy any way — open grief
sinking in
set on back away,
a hebrewite
wept from his beard,
hat as
an arc, chasing
a block
Blue Coups
A poem without night marks
one tired, curries quiet closer,
leans to you
like the
spelling of circles.
Square near scribbling,
hardened breezes
while white
sky heated is clean
—out—cloaking love.
In shuffle slow, hesitant steps,
dribbles of promise
laid roadside, my religous
rose-thorn
asked march with these;
a threadbare bird.
Who (No-one-blues)
No one left to talk to
No one to even write
No-one I hope to sing for
No one who will turn off the night
No one to hear me loafing
No-one to sweet me round
No one to answer hotly
No-one to be honor-bound
No two legged under orange yoke
No one felt atop lilied feet
No-one shaken within anger’s seat
No one tenders my long pent mete
No-one left to talk to
No one to even write
No one I hope to sing for
No one who turns off my light