Sunday, November 3, 2013

in November's cooling . . .

there is nothing but the dried whiteness of bone
the crackled richness of autumns' leaves ; fragile & fallen
the scent of snow & sage embraced as it hangs moist & sharp
strung by silver wire fine to the naked white birch
twirling & exposed
relevant organs donated to Oz
movement becoming transgenic, soft & grey
ashamed by want and
crystalline hollowed
breath irrelevant
surrender here


  1. The thing I love about your poetry is that I can never quite work out whether you are expressing happiness or sadness, or perhaps you express that exquisite mixture of both. There is beauty in too...