Walking through Logan

Here I move among the happenings,

breathing the miasmas of needing,

hearing the the wrenching seizures of solitude

and foot fall through the shallows

of winter's waters

horded in pot-holes.

In the dark looks, under the heavy brows

of the shadows limping past, needing,

I see their eyes are no longer

lucid devices.

Headlights and Broadways

by static amber light and

speeding white-blue

a boy picks from the gutter

not a toy,

or a ball,

not a coin,

but the death of a squirrel

holding it high

bushy brush tail wire

between thumb and forefinger

Joy

alarms from his lips

but there is too much alarm

on these streets

for others to notice.

The Furies and Lucidity

You hear a hundred darker lines

each turn of the sunlight

mine are only troubling

in an articulate way

The voice of the calling

from outside the amber light

inside the edge of shadows

is easy to ignore

He is mad you say

His is intoxicated and estranged

He is not me you say

You walk on untouched

My words are ruthless lucidity

Dark, yes, Shadow, yes... clear

not coal for wrath

but edged for bloodletting

Within the melee and uproar

of the towering full moon

may my words taint

the madness calling

and open to you,

the woes and the furies in his drunken heart

The Morrigan

From Ghost Pictures

She is the vibration,

the note, the chord

of night's abject abysses

which sundered my eye's light

From full lips

dropped with

red wine dew;

Moonlight silver

on her wetting tongue... perish

Between stones and surrenders

under descending onyx autumn

on brittle leaves and moss rock

Winter's waters draw from breath

a cannonade of thirst.

Crow and wolf

and cat's eyes

will open before

the pith of the sun

hurling the rage of day

like snow across the dead

The Time that held her Still

The musk of rotting walls

laced with web and dust

and ivy's fresh green

wet dark by fog

A blue dress,

the hem a scythe-whisper

across grass and weed.

Alabaster fingers

bruised by brick.

Fear runs, tracking blood

in its wake and wash

of flowers, closed, but

waiting.

Hands, white, gripping stone,

pulling,

wanting.

Sunlight, pulled under the mist water

drowning...

Time

white and bruised as the fingers which

claw the walls, crumbling

slips its hands between her breasts

to hold

her heart still.