Dead Eyes

Pairs of hands grasp hands, mercy pulls into homestretch hesitation.
Our angels adjure us to flee annihilation, waiting our word.

The wind carries the shrieks and the stench of rotten eggs,
seeing fire sheets zigzag from heaven to the hell of burning flesh.

I feel my body crystallize into a burnished tomb,
window eyes being the last thing mirrored in horror.

Mind Lot’s wife.

Remains stand
still dead eyes in the back of your head
affixed
to the sulfur-soaked paper rag plain pillars.
Zombie salt figure statue
exhuming His remainders
into the mountains of culture,
melting the turbid icy snow pack.
Reanimating wadi water-washed hearts.

Be Still

Clotheslines encircle
the perimeter
of the housing jungle,
sidewalks connect
the cookie-cutter houses,
high voltage olive
drab cases
dot the landscape,
where
siblings scrutinize
the world of creeping ants, spiders, worms,
in the autumn grass.
Mom watches,
wishing
for a life growing
from the loam
of winter.


Previously published in the Missouri State Poetry Society’s Grist 2007 Anthology.

Four Winds

Dipping
Your quill into the ink bottle,
You write me to an ocean of
white-washed bones.
As the ink flows through the quill,
I open my mouth,
speaking the words forming on the page, my breath
exiled
from hope in my lungs.

I inhale
as the bones rattle
joint – to – joint
into an organic outline of characters,
poised for entry into their story arc,

eyes widen as the tendonal transitions
connect
the skeletal framework of Your prophetic narrative.

Osmotic shock
of my emotion warms their skins,
bodies awakening as blood
rushes
through arteries,
flush with stoic sentimentality.

Form figures
stand
before us. Again we collaborate, Your four winds bring breath from the
        north, south, east and west
skies converging to create Your final poem draft
of fireworks
to the four corners of the earth.