You have the world before you
with the rich golden haze of fortune...

Sometimes a warm porch
simply cannot be ignored...

History is a myth that sustains
our justification for all...

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...