Dust

The dust is swathed in colors 
pink frost, evening's  blue-grey 
the dust that tramples upon 
the amorous heart, skinned bodies 

where does the dust go to?
do they gather on these hills,
their rocks, their caves 
I gather armfuls in benighted 
present, past, a cupful of tears 



windways into them 
as the hills whistle.


You Never Know 

the angst 
a painful being 
the food left over 
eaten by the mangy dog 
all these pictures are left 
over, selfies stay away 
I want these pictures 
whipped statue,
eight years old raped 
the plot, the madness 
what storytelling is this
what conspiracy 
give me those pictures 
to make a rotten lie 
of life, my life. 
You never know 
what happens this minute 
as I write this. 
You are swathed in pictures 
my country, see over there 
the wind blows across petite hills
over there the rains glare into 
dark, dark.


 

Summer Rains

These summer rains
are a whisper, not rains
the wet earth looks upward
and soil breaks loose
turtle-like. The snake climbs
up the sodden earth to discover
friends. Children ask questions 
and play time will be over.

The sundial ticks ruthlessly 
even as the sun wanes
and summer rains devour the earth. 

I measure time
Others measure hours 
but like all creatures
summer rains are intransigent 
huge metaphor of living myth.