Friday, April 8, 2011


I open the sliding window
watch which the direction the wind blows
send a message with 64 bits set to zero.
Through the eaves I see the departed
these ghosts have not yet started, instead their faces are mirages
which remember the weeping visages that threw down the burial corsages
in the gloaming I hear them moaning,
fighting the everlasting riptide, eventually as they lie drowning
I read the uncomprehending, unbending frowning.

like dead leaves twirling to the grey earth
that spiral in concentric swirls to the cosmic maelstrom
And the trees with their reds, browns yellows and greens
screen the river from these sights that would make it scream

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