I listen to broken grass...

I listen to broken grass…

I listen to broken grass

Dried out by summer

Popping underfoot like

Frozen grass in winter.

Originally published in Heron Tree (February 1, 2015)

Nose Park Hill, Alberta, Canada

2:00 AM

2:00 AM

No dogs bark at this hour,

Desolate, an abandoned field burnt by the sun,

Dry shaving curls on a workshop floor long unswept.

I hear a motorcycle roar along a distant road,

Harsher than the sound of sawing wood.

Then silence thickens like concrete putty sealing

Joints and crevices of a room

Gradually deafening to the slightest vibration.

The world is asleep, I am awake.

Passing time heaves, a resting animal.

Now is the moment to descend into stillness

Deep as darkness enfolding underground rivers,

Delicate as a tissue broken by a cough.

I am solitary as a metal tool

Seeking the warm grasp of a skillful hand.

Before the smallest beginning of a noise like a flint flake

Tears into the fabric of the night, I will take long draughts, cupping my hands

Descending as birds into the springs of tranquility.

Originally published in This Dark Matter (January 30, 2015)

Antique wall clock

Tag-Init

TAG-INIT

This time of year is a spear of broken grass, dryly curling like famine.

The wind droops, feverish. Tufts of old bread strewn about are picked at by hopping birds wielding knives.

High above, the sun wears a scorching beard, hair crackling, his puffy face, angry red.

Scornfully, the sky holds itself aloof, cerulean—the color of cruelty—unsullied by the gathering promise of rain.

Darkness rushes in at low tide of daylight. Black hordes silently clatter weapons.

Moonlight rises long and slender as a cold fish, flint head glinting in silvery water.

Momentary, this desert: a puff of dust exploded by a gusty fist.

Originally published in Eastlit (September 1, 2014)

High above, the sun wears a scorching beard...