Winter sends my thoughts South,
Like birds, flying in formation...

It is to the point
that desirable leaders...

The dry air pulls my breath eastward
where desert calls in earnest yearning...

Only
the night Walker...

I cook with a plain wooden spoon
that has faint colors...

Is
there...

My craft, my life, my self
depend on meanings...

I lay in bed preparing
for the looming long chill...

You fall on me like a torrent
amidst the worst drought...

Your pin prick of scorn
devastates worse than anger...

Those days were captured
on the postcards I sent home...

Each man's hand itches
when he sees the sword impaled...