xxxxxvi.

The harmonica whines, and I think,
that everyone is somebody’s dog

as I wait for the storm to come,

I feel the pressure rise

behind my eyes, every man

is a world.

In the corner, they’re talking about,

South Africa, and the piano clunks

through a love song, I thought
I saw a flash in the window,

but they talk in circles, and the

asphalt is empty.

Outside, the boy and the girl

shoot each other with their fingers

the dog jumps, and the ice squeals

in my cup, they stand up smiling,
at the corner of my eyes, and I

smile and hunch over.

The trees trace shadow,

on the clouds, and the singer

strums his guitar, my back aches

and the car that is parking, glows

so bright, in front of me she

sneezes, as the baristas rustle

behind the counter.

At the ending chord, another

song begins, I find myself

thinking--

another old one...

when a boulder breaks
--it shrieks

it's nature is to be
whole--

as the molecules
resign, and loose
their hold

--it knows it can not
be divided, without
dying.

when your fingers
tap that vein
--I creak

xxxxxv.

the roaring watch-fires

on the mountains of my soul

have stilled,

adjunct to silence,
strange to smell

the guttering

of your cook-fire

...

I found an old one while cleaning the hard drive.

---

tonight I fingered the outline
of the gas station at the corner
the hovering palm, and brief curve
of the foothill behind the freeway
like the ribbon of an old medal
from a quiet war
ran my eye along the horizon
bright and sad
--like you do for an old lover, caught
in passing, held my head up
cocked--like I was feeling the breeze
skulking through a window
in a wall that has fallen
clear