a humanist

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