I could only manage one small stone a day
I was that weak
to plug the breach in the river bank
Each night it would wash away
After a month, I could manage two stones –
and then three…
~ ~ ~
The Realness of the Feeling of the Living
Standing under the fire
piece of brown plastic
the wind whirls, desolate of song
strange words I hear every night
filled with clouds
free of dream and free of everything
long horizons and plains
angels of the unborn
the moon yellows and mellows
we live to long, so long I will
I wake up from these dreams