Friday, February 28, 2014


Hear the method of repair
the air is filled with a low hum
across the nape of  naked trees
I feel like I still hold the leaves
the weight like feathers now

The fabric will not remain so quiet
it will touch me until I'm clogged
and a season will grow within the ditch
soon dimpling the overflow off curb
awash within the noisy gutters rise
until I can at last lay down a word of me

that flows down the river
          to the sea