The rain is long past a redemption
but there is at least a peace to it
on an unseasonably warm night.
There are no baptisms to wash away
the day no erasure. The rain whittles
like the wind whittles away
artifice years of living dryside
in this chamber of the world machine
down to what we are.
Tag Archives: night
nos. 48, 49, 50
no. 48
Above the ever ending world
the moon scrambles up the side
of the 2nd Street Bridge
no. 49
When pressed I resort to metaphors
no. 50.
the bleeding out
wears an exhausted countenance
looking into the abyss it keeps off the chill
awake in smudge city / the lights on river reflect
only we do not know / we are the reflection