My eyes abide the blighted light of the yellow-leafed tree. Please set my stone here and let us both rest. But please stop and listen — I know you can hear it, the grief in my spirit, and you see the fraying of my days, my finite breaths fading away. I still lean into oldContinue reading “The yellow-leafed tree”
Forty years on, she follows the path of his ghost, a slender and thorned road that leads to a ruined ecstasy. Above the carpeted dirt, she remembers the boy’s twitching mouth, so unaccustomed to casual pleasure, and the slow burn of tobacco between them. The last of the afternoon light dripped between the hemlocks andContinue reading “The hemlocks”
Flat boxes of fiveses and sixeses minuteses of sleep wrapped with gray burlap readies to tear bound by loopy stringses
We stare at the lines, divided, you and I stark and misguided, worn dull by day’s exhausted breath we move on by hope of certain rest; by day and by step, with faith our bequest and by trust, and what it will cost us.
Lilac leaves are the surest sign that spring has stopped teasing. Although the flowers rarely last more than a week here, the leaves possess their own silky beauty. I’ve photographed them many times over the years, and they always draw me back for more.
They call me Balazar. I do not know why. I am old. Irrefutably old. And oh, how the years have poured through me. I have plucked the flesh of the immortals, scarred the tongues of those who speak my name, plundered their bones. I have wept for the stains I leave upon their torn breasts,Continue reading “Balazar”