This Town XII

with soft hands

i'll tear this town

apart,

rebuild along

missing lines of communication,

a history found

in debris,

shards of glass,

dirt trails with

cigarette butts leave

one night memories

across scattered landscapes,

someone asks,

i respond with plastic thoughts,

too lazy to carry the right amount of words

The Long Poem: A Precursor

The poem lays alone
on the page
without a name, nameless
in it's uncertainty.

It waits
for the moment, a moment
to return.

It isn't done,
it isn't done.

Towards a Mill: Early Morning

A stiff breeze,

cold against frost,

warm glass,

A drive down

a familiar road

to a familiar place

Snow drifts along

black asphalt beneath

metal and plastic, exits

the rear in a confused

whirl

The road snakes

towards a venomous

point, lined with stakes

and trees

that mark the way

It's still cold,

but the check engine light

has finally gone out, a sputter,

spark to say it's okay

No radio, only silent

conversations with passing

cattle and sleeping birds, the fence

post remind me of a dream

I once had

Not so far off,

the orange haze

and timber smell,

the strange hum of equipment

and blades

still present from

yesterdays shift

It will be another day,

the mouse will deafly look

on and see only sawdust ghost

in plywood shells