Stuck on yesterday's falling leaf
as if I was riding its zigzags
towards a bed of grass,
where worms wait to tuck
me in- naked branches can't
escape coming winter either,
when snow will bury us all
for a time.
Myriad of colours meaningless,
while my rake runs over a lawn,
of a yard my father maintained
for years. Any flies dismissed
as a nuisance, not a reminder
we feed the earth.
The Secrets That Live in the Dark
“You must be very sad,” she said.
“That's why I write,” my answer.
Don't bother saying how words
make better tears than water,
eyes too busy observing
a world already drowning,
glaciers dead and dying-
onions chopped, smile about steam
coming from boiling pot
(peelings already in a plastic grocery bag),
pretend a clean kitchen
means more than what it is,
while I still eat off foam plates,
floss the pesticides from my teeth,
stopped watching gas prices years ago,
and when I die, my eyes
will stay open, tired or sunsets,
but not of the secrets that live
in the dark, yet having to be content
with a white ceiling faded yellow
because nothing stays the same,
not even the shape of despair.