Alphabet of Days (8)


He lifts a smoky chin
over sand & cactus & lizard,
settles in against the stars

above Joshua Tree, against the beat
of legend, the click of train to rail,
until his gray puffs of bone
come to nothing

                              The words say
wild horses run the flatland to where
the only music is wind over rock –

a mirage of silent curves & sin
(his own) with mounds of bottles,
with pools of goodness


Delaleuverses said...

Nice poem, I really enjoyed and your blog is also inspirational

beLLe said...

oooh nice flow~nice imagery....digging your work, Mr. 10,000



Sam of the ten thousand things said...

Thanks beLLe and delaleuverses for the good words.