The Last Word

The Last Word

I have seen the river run with blood

After dawn woke peaceful. Still cold
but with the damp scent of spring

I have watched sunlight on the water
Life reflected into fire. Heard the vultures sing
of heaven. Dance in circles. The immortal taste of flesh

I have felt the pulse of life grow weary
Known, too late, dawn’s other choices
Night has come. We don’t take anger with us

Only love

What Come of Waiting

What Comes of Waiting

What comes of waiting

First passion aged
the taste complex. Love too
became a vintner’s drink
the bitter blissful buzz

The volunteer. The drafted men
who left and leave by choice or need
Dug trenches into graves. Their women
sowed forgotten seed

Water’s languid kiss, the rock’s demise
Flames for heat slow burned to ash
Invited guest, the late trespass stay and stay
The hole is filled. The ground left soft
as breath had been

We found them here. What comes of waiting



She knew a man
who touched in dreams
the veil of death. Delicate
fingers of a lover. A mind
born quick to dust. How he came
to call it a waterfall

Her children, recent travelers
through the gossamer mist, tested
the surface with a stick. Wondered
if the world was strong enough
to hold them. Remembered
only that they’d wished for light
Light appeared and there was skin
to mark the boundaries of heaven.

She only knew to name it nothing. Chase
the language. Lack the word
Let the label be living

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