Timelessly I stare
searching my own eyes...

Up before the sun is old
A wheeling car, a curving road...

The church was arched
with white and gold, pillared with...

Arms flung white and stiff above her head
fingers clutch the shelf...

There are lines that cross the void between the...
and shape them to their fates...

There is goodness in living
a life like a young river...

Our shadows tossed
on cold dew grass...

Two dollars for the gravedigger.
Three on a Sunday, to put...

All through the evening I chase you
from couch, to wall, to floor...

It's the season closest
if anything...

A leaf curls like ash
wafting downward dry and grey...

Worry is a white
fox, a snowy ermine...