In the Garden

In the journey of you

the suckled grape, the coaxing strum

where the god that breeds knelt

and offered fruit from the failing limbs

of moist magnitudes—

from the yoke of breaths

every clutch of earth inhales.

Even in the garden you would not bow

to time’s stumbling trance,

not for the taste of blood

nor temptation of design:

and it was on you the temples rose

liberated with a grasp

of the hair beneath the sky.

To Whom it May Concern


Quite the rest for me

Put far from mine own hand

A tourist in a foreign land.


May invoke a wait;

Still, not quite the range

Or any real sense of change.


Quite the instance;

Do what you will

Any need fulfill.


Is quite random

But worry, worry

Leaves the future quite so blurry.

Decisions, decisions.