Sweat drenched, sucking air,
Crowds screaming Xanax fare - -
A game that's all, composite leather ball,
Not Campion Hall - - just round, pebble ground
...
Who waits for me? And why for me to wait?
The Gate swings a pearl door - the beckoning,
Perhaps a fate.
Alas, the ancient gods, the ghostly hands,
...
The bamboo feels the wind and bends
a harmony transcends
the temple of it home
the grove residing on its own
...
Two old Navajo
on a bench
changing slowly
with the leaves
...
Branches broken
unspoken words
tokens of what remains - -
the games played, time delayed
...
Hemlock walked away
into the pale blue
and scarlet grays of winter afternoons
...
Dry rains of lost time
no one knows your sound
no one hears your voice
...
He looked across the grays and blues
of odysseys and crescent moons
into a distance simplified
with fewer words less sanctified
...
Turtle clocks watch
the hours sent,
withered fingers bent,
curved, a crescent moon
...