Month: November 2020

Emphatic

the future trembles
in dust-speckled sunlight, yellow,
then vanishes with the slightest breath;
grab for it,
and it bursts like steam in the air.

our mythology of control
is a slow synthetic death,
a protracted execution,
arrogant axe
in the hands of the self-made man.

survival turned commodity,
pleasure turned sedation,
peace is a prison.

we renounce the Furies of creation,
and paint our lives with gold.

Autumn

Rain pelts
down through
a gray chill sky:
the tiny bursts of each drop
crackle together
and hum, and drum.

On the sidewalk
worms are dying,
washed out strands of earth
trapped and drowned
on disaffected concrete.

A big one wriggles slowly,
moves its head in
something like confusion.
I pick it up and return
it to the grass,
glistening and
shuddering violently
under the wet barrage.