Last night, I gave into sins until
they chased me past thickets...

I'm told that time
conspires against...

You flay my muted mouth
coiling around with disgrace...

My lips tingled
and curled laconically...

Skin that heals, sores that no longer
ache, hope that croons on candlelit...

The notice before me is a parasite,
no longer matter that I'm musing over...

I am reflected in every shopping window,
half mutt, half widow of Wall Street...

...

The day mourned as if every tree base
was a rueful cry that became softened...

I took my daughter Beth to our backyard apple tree
where lambent sunshine chased soft-sung sparrows...

Make a wish upon
Candlelight Avenue...

The art of dreaming does not come from fantasizing...
but arises from the flaming core of one's soul...