A BLACK MAN.

A black man used a phone in the lobby

the police were called

and the room became cold

a daffodil grew in the vase

the night stared blankly

at me

the curtains were drawn

an old man moaned

he was sickly

nothing moved

except the wind

that cried at the window

the black man cried

he was brought a block of

cheese

and a box of rum

he sat there chewing and chewing

his mouth full of grease

the night wore on

night became still like death.

Snow Egret.

SNOW EGRET

The snow egret looks out over the water.

The snow egret falls.

The tide shifts.

It is the light.

It is the darkness inside us.

Some people are being ignored right now.

Thrown out with the waves on the shore.

The stones move, and are broken.

Shells are broken like a cross.

Anger makes the ocean move.

The snow egret is one of the last, sadly.

No one lives here.

It is the end of time.

Hope is in the darkness,

of sad things lost.

Some children are lost.

They will never be found.

I found something once.

It did nothing for me.

I tried to change my mood about

finding things.

But nothing could be changed.

I wander down into the snowy water.

It is cold.

We are here.

BROKEN.

BROKEN

The broken clown

sifts like moving water

the glass house

is a dream

a metaphor

of something long past.

The darkness is like stone.

Everything is hollow inside,

a hollow shell.

No one wanders here,

lost like a lone mile,

everything is prude.

Stones are broken.

Like sad things moving.

Shadows move and bend with time.

I am darkness.

I am the wind that moves.

I am the grass.

I am the lone echo crying in the night.

The lone winter moor.

Shadows fade.

Time bends.

THE PROJECTS.

THE PROJECTS

In the projects I am wakened by

the sound of gunshots

down the street

the bitter wind is blowing

and I cannot see the back of my hand

in the deep night.

Shadows jump all around me

and the cold winter is upon us

just like shaped things that move like

time.
Thoughts are willed, stilled.

I am holding onto a breathless moment

that is caught in a spiderweb of dew,

like the forgotten shadows of March

I commit myself to the act of sorrow,

the broken bones of night.

I cannot hear myself breathe.

They are listening, like moving things,

and sometimes you can hear them-

skulking about in the stillness,

a man moving in his slumber.

I found myself on borrowed time.

Like a web of dreams that lie

awake at night and cause me to

scream in desperation,

shadows marching upon the stone.