Two Poems















Drawn as though to a lure on a line

the driver parks between rock and far space,

the chill air a whistle along one seam,

its tune a waver, mystical,

like the cry he has caught,

hands loosening the wheel

dropping away

as the wind dies

where he stares

across the barren lot.


His old van shudders one last time

and is still. Listening to the silence

he frames his complaint:

Utah to the west, Florida to the east,

and here his nadir.

Is there no escape?


He will stay, he decides,

until the answer comes.


Meanwhile, on the lone table,

fruit flies on a melon rind.




Quarreling, the first gull flies.

The surging surf has swallowed down the beach.

Without its claw a sand crab dies,

Grappling out of reach.


For no tide the sea rocks wait.

The summer moon has dwindled from the sun.

A severing fog the damp earth makes,

Trackless, hushed, undone.


(from Poem magazine)


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