a rain-soaked city last winter, "young
creatives," braced with paper cups of exotic coffee, swiped
into rectangular plastic talking back. Say what?
gods are ghosts whose silent eyes dance with sarcastic
humor, having plied our
imminence of death. So
I curse clouds that don't leave a tear behind,
that promise to sing through
A venerated shadow slouches across
leaving in its wake
cradle of dust.