Monday, October 19, 2009

October 19, 2009

one, now
another, a three-fold
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

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
no one wears anymore,
at flea markets

think of the
ox tonight when winter
wakens you

robert d. wilson

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