Monday, July 28, 2008
Termini
The surface of the loading dock had been milled
by a century
of pallet-laden forks.
The ballast
emerged in a loose,
slippery flour. I could feel its
granular drift beneath my shoes.
Nails and washers were compacted in
the sediment. An iron
cross-beam poised its hesitant
threat, rushing us
molecule by molecule.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
The Elder
He wore a white suit
and parted his hair from behind
with a pillow.
