Pensile clouds of a new Truth loom.
With them are selected versions of
Extinct grief.
...
Before light’s encroaching
Beams, across wavelengths
Of glints, in between yawning
Protocols of waking,
...
In this arid circumstance,
on a collage of sacred pulses,
this pot — Heritage — merely sits,
smoked and besmirched by elements
...
They fall from grace to grass,
aged, scorched and dehydrated,
fluttering away further
the vanity of previous
...
I sit, this morn, on the bed of
A dried-up rivulet,
Head-bent and full of compunction.
It's clam-quiet except for the impatient
...
Verdigris is the evidence of death,
the symbol of ruin,
of waste,
of abandonment,
...
Shudder not, for it's the language of Death.
Who's next? —it asks
Going from house to house,
Both of marble and mud
...
Sunday rises gallantly from behind
Distant clouds, orange, on the wall
Of low, chintzy, tepid skies.
...
Like a child's toy stomped on by a vicious adult,
These images haunt...
It's no pribble when I insist that their mothers' breasts,
Sucked lame by gelid seasons,
...