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Eight O'Clock

Café con leche and toast to start the morning.
Dreams of those still sleeping.
Silence.

The clock on the wall there, not at the hours,
ticking is dumb a compass drowned
off a heart like mine.

The newspaper does not surprise me, yet my eyes
soak up every word known, expected ,
read again and again ,
and again convicted.

disgusted me bricks,
conquered land, the conspiracies
oblique,
bishops, church services,
stories,
nukes,
nuclei without pumps ,
repeated trials,
interested war,
righties, claims,
off-center.
And I keep reading and I am looking .

Maybe there are no longer looks
who can write tenderness,
caressing souls ,
to kiss and cuddled our attention
orphaned and injured ...?

hands Is there not complacent, generous ,
they serve and extend
soothing skin from the sun devoured
canoe while drifting .. . ?.

man Do not tell me their troubles well known;
tell me about hope, dreams found,
of love and smiles .

Tell me, burn it on my skin, and tell me that there is
tell me there is a place where life has conquered death
and steel.

For once,
in one place,
even once.



Wind.

(September 2006)