Dec 8, 2005


That the ghosts who haunt our lives
shan't buckle under the sun of this earth

in the snow in the high stations above
the boulevard waking to quicksand

the joiner of this life a grifter of balsa
roods picker of locks
in woolen mitts the chill
unlocks the gusts of his breath

barefoot winter light

reflects the pasty skies
in fisheyed vestments where the Black
Sun hovers above this world

of fact we love a ship of oars
& no crew they crash

into our cabals the white anchors
of the falling snow

No comments: