Tuesday, March 17, 2009


the dead live in whispers

inside the grey barns
the owls hunt the moon
and carve dark temples
into the earth

wind struggles against wind

every night
the brave fall to pieces
they call the others
who arrive confused and hungry
like us
they fear our stranger’s voice

at work
heads crowd the hallways
and hands slumber, freeze
like carved stone

each failed attempt
becomes today’s disasters