A bowl

can't measure

the precipitation

of a coin.

Alms are wide-handed.

Once beats out

copper.

Find your way,
go with me astray
into the vast wilderness
of exploration

take this time,
and intertwine
with the matrix
& see it serves
no good

a time arise,
for a poet's prize
he picks this call
in all
endeavors

There's a harvest

in adamant smoke.

The table is far too

proportionate--

sit down for a bit.

You alone provide

the spoils.

Sit down.

What a spread.

Poets come.

Poets go.

Poems remain—

left behind for someone

to read,

to admire,

and

to inspire

the next generation

to pick up the pen.

I need

...but have been too long alone
untouched by desire
the presumption of love
in joints of dust –the lame of lust

So...

Unseen
Years creep by
Silent, numb

No one remembers
who I was

Raising my eyes
to the window—
–a flock of sparrows rise as one
into a gray sky
of mind

Beauty left by the back door of day
unnoticed in fading light

A dull ache
is all

Between drags of my cigarette,
I lie back on the concrete
and stare into the night sky.

The stars are beautiful tonight, aren’t they?

Not because the air is clear,
or that the heavens are unusually bright
but because tonight I see their depth,
their quiet elegance,
the way they gather into a canvas
stitched across light-years.

The way they align feels like perfection
a harmony born of distance,
comfort found
in the vastness of the abyss.

I trace the Big Dipper,
Orion too.
Not for anyone else,
but for the stone that cradles my skull,
for the roots beneath the soil,
for the spiders weaving
in the leaves at my side.

I’m almost finished with the cigarette now.
But some part of me wants to stay out here,
just me and the stars
serendipity
in their quiet, endless beauty.