Late August bears canicular days.
Vertical rays beat down.
My head bends forward,
seeking the shade of my own shadow.
Once luminous eyes now fading,
Fight off the unequaled glare of the most radiant star.

Waiting on Life The silhouette of an old woman rests against the window of her car. A red light gives her time to muse. She remembers translucent memories and holds her gaze steady. She is long past the memories of porcelain words uttered in false wisdom, broken utterances dropped like smashed plates on the dinning room floor. But she remembers the drive home. Seeing bronzed faces of men, Men with

Sinking Daystar I have seen 23,011 sunsets or so. Each one different than the night before. Each one a newborn, crying out on an early eve. There is something about a newborn cry. Your heart opens wider just at the sound. Your eyes are softer. Your soul more gentler. Their inch high fingers touch the sky. They enkindle the heavens. The clouds light up. Laden booties stamp golden dust from

Words are tough enough, and now you tell me to measure them in meter and rhyme. To dress them, position them like fruit in a bowl. Words, ink blots, charcoal smears, audibles, never good enough, always second best. Word sage? Please, tell me how to put fire words on a cold line, tell me how to save the gut words that drown in my throat, the ones that never reach