So, the poor year ends-
events are stacked like old
wood on a pathway, past
recovering the memory of
where you chopped them.
The small green valley
contains a multitude of
lovely thoughts. Drifting
feelings are lost to oak and
A world rages and fallen people
conflict in an endless latitude
of strife. No more is heard of
the laughter of girls in the yard.
No more do angels shuttle through
the poisonous atmosphere. We go in-
we go out of the world that punishes
us with doubt. Where are the good men
and women to save it? Let the old year
spiral to the old pathway while we
look to new stars beyond the new
They are stacked in the memory
like silver bars buried by
robbers of old, revealed
when the wind blows easterly
through passionless leaves;
one by one they die into the
Then suddenly one breaks free
and races like a strange bird
that creates a beautiful pattern
in the blur of its derangement.
Conversations emerge from the hole
where the object has broken from;
people are overheard outside the
great public library discussing
politics; they speak so to shame
passing youth of its budding desire.
And expects, any day, for the sky
to become an ancient bird, a roc,
a frightening and magnificent object
for the imagination.