stucco

like pressed flowers

found in an old book

the world grows flat

long passages of white

on white– white sand

below a white sky

holding a white sun

a black line defines

the horizon like a closed eye

there’s no sleep in this noise

no rest from the silent mundane

oozing across a glass pane

the snail’s slow slime

becomes the air we traverse

connecting the featureless day

to the homogeneous night

clouds press low like stones

(July 24, 2019)

The Commute Between Day and Dream

Lost amid the accusations

and misappropriations

in bars and vague hallways,

he wakes into his troubles

unable to disaggregate

his shadows from the dawn.

Behind him, they trail ribbons

of smoke, curling about his feet

like cats hunting rats,

whenever he stops to think.

From frozen puddles, old friends

and loves rise toward him;

their faces blurred beneath ice.

They then sink away, as quickly,

leaving him to shuffle his fingers

uncomfortably across the steering wheel

as he waits for the light to change.

(July 24, 2019)