autumn sun—
exoticism blooms
from an oak
this moon too
it all comes to
cloud-choked night—
closed eyes recreate
the expanse
early bird
birthing the world
into which 
it sings
cattle trough—
a paddock jumps
into its sound
night deepens—
just the sound of words
to feel this
where I'm not
shapes twist the entrails
of a cumulus
air moves
to my voice—
the heat
the words I write
stepped over
by a fly
emptiness—
I listen for the tone 
in my voice
from the hole
rise the dull thuds
of our goodbyes
moss script—
the stony silence
now hers
profit margin—
you diss my idols
I break your face
day moon cloud—
all that fades without words
fades without words
unseasonal rain—
in tomorrow's news
the death of today
tidal mud—
the sound of loss
tugs at me
summer clouds
trailing off somewhere
with my voice
dense with stars
night grows expansive
behind my eyes 
day moon— 
your disabled normalcy,
my son
new year heat
the very air slows
to my pace
this consciousness . . .
what does it feel like
as it ends?
dusky sky
wrenching the silence 
from silence
                         s
                         u
                        m
trailing off  somewhere with my voice
                         e
                         r
 
                        c
                        l
                       o
                       u
                       d
                       s
 
                        e
                        p
       one who lies in here
                        t
                       a
                       p
                       h
 
                y
be done on earth 
                u
                r
 
                    w
     just as it is in heaven
                     l
                     l
 
                     l
                    e
                    t
 
                     i
                     t
 
 
 
lingering dusk— 
daylight withdraws its last
semblance of order
night of stars— 
the fullness within me
flickers unseen
leaving light— 
the shimmer on the brink
of seeing
summer bounty . . .
city malls birthing
usurers
danger zone
my shadow skirts
the obvious
wormholed night . . .
I sleep past the ends
of my dreams
tadpole galaxy— 
I eavesdrop on the drama
played out before us
us and them
taking the unknown
personally
star risen night— 
the depth of longing
still in me
ripe onion— 
the outer roundness
of her belly
datastore . . .
virtual shadows
of my self
moving water . . .
my shadow laps at
the edges
cloudless day . . .
so much harder to see
what lies hidden
burnt offering— 
the move from holocaust
to Holocaust
cicada,
what secret are you
drenching me in?