Poetry

Piles of paper gathering dust No, there’s nothing. Empty vessels, trussed in wordless ropes Busted, untrusted, rusting relics Broken jugs where once clichéd terms Might have been stored Might have poured upon

The Spaces In Between The spaces in between Are not what they seem Short pauses, longer moments Within which, what might have been Withers on its parallel vine A welcome scene, a sudden

He sat at his table and stared at his coffee, it was still warm and he’d drink it as soon as he felt he’d be able to lift up his arm,

Noises Off Staring at an empty page Is never quite enough, though It helps control the inner rage That comes, in stages: First feeling a little rough, though Maintaining semblance of control, A

Ancient Currents Ancient currents draw lines in the flow Unseen to any but those who can know How time travels forth, following its own course Liquid space moves in place, a supporting force