Monday, July 28, 2008


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.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?