The days in Border Town shimmer
with dust that hangs in the air palpable as pudding.
The nights lonesome as a coyote's cry,
and black as death, except for the bright lights
Intent on her task, she gazes
at the earth, stooping.
Raking parched leaves, she scoops
them up with gloved hands,
Vino Rosso Della Guerra
My father spoke of eating rats
to stay alive in World War I
as he lay in bloodied fields
The Light In Your Blue Eyes
I grieve that I may be the first to die,
To leave you here alone to see
The break of day, the setting of the sun.
The Flower Market
At the flower market
I found spice, holy water,
cobblestoned obsidian dreams,
but no flowers.