one, now
another, a three-fold
terminal
of miscreant moths
drawn from light to light
the boom boom
boom of workers racing
the rain
search the sun,
the moon, the ripples
of streams . . .
a thousand monks
vending mantras
cock fighting . . .
spilling blood
after church
the fire
coming from the
dragon's mouth
is oddly wet . . .
a tulip in winter
she gives her
two young boys the love
spring denied her
a friend of
mine died this morning . . .
tired, with too
much to do and a
heart that couldn't keep pace
half mast . . .
even the moon tonight
weeps for you
overwhelmed?
the sun sets in the
east, instead
of the west, the
moon eating butterflies
deep morning . . .
a laborer chats
with the stars . .
fate, the four
letter word hanging from
talismans
no one wears anymore,
at flea markets
think of the
ox tonight when winter
wakens you
robert d. wilson
©2009
©2009
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