top of page



Why does sleep fighting

bear the right words

not early morning waking

round the bend to consciousness

perhaps in the lure of departing

looselipping comes easy


A prick in the mind

grows to the words

only when journeyed

in the dead right direction


Clarity nears dark with stealth

bolting the sun preference given

to bright small baskets forever


wrinkled to seed

planted in sleep with stealth

bottom of page