Black Hair, White Space, Gray Matter

That space between your ears remains 
Shockingly grotesque, revealing 
A gross lack of fantasy in shucking it— 
Do not wonder then how it was all 
Those sheaves of corny poems you wrote 
And kept turning over in your mind 
That turned your hair white overnight. 

In-between Poetic Tracts

As the words retract, 
The gaps keep stretching 

Out longer, till one day 
Down in the lower 40 

Of your mind, 
There’s just one 

Endless gap left,
Tilling away. 

Transparency, As in Projection

You’ve barely scratched the surface 
Under the volcano 

And already you think 
Your mind’s made of obsidian. 

On the Threshold

Unblinking wide-eyed pupils 

Soon to be taught how 
To be blind to whatever 
They saw 

That set them apart. 

Little House in Olive Grove at Twilight

passage

of almond flowered clustered

stars through the firmament soon in sight

find matches smell the oil lamp light the fire

place yourself right here no

where else in universe so

right.