No more angels

There are no more angels hiding
in poor man’s bush,
only hungry sparrows,
– winter starved –
waiting for a rush
in their feathery lives,
never confiding in sharp arrows
carved with chilly knifes
from cold, thin branches
where snow once reigned
in all aspects.






Time is

Time is a reckless mistress
corrupting matter and me
as I pass through winter woods
in fear of dark ends,
wincing when wind dies.

Just a shell of bone and skin,
– this I call my home in vain,
a decay in dread of wind
that floats from railroads –
with eyes that wait for snow.

A searing stare at the tree,
a meeting meets the eye
with unwritten tales,
ties and fleeting turns,
a searching for small footprints
in soft snow.






Dog night sailor

Last curtain call
impales every illusion
when dog night sailor scrawls
in a late night confusion:
“There is no turning back.”
Cruel mistress of shadows,
whispers he lacks,
sets the stage so cruel.