A bow is drawn slowly across
a single string, and a sound
like vapor stretches through
the air. The heart quickens,

and there is a tightness
in the chest like the skilled
fingers pressing down
just enough to elicit longing

only music can awaken.
Words fade to a whisper,
eyes close, and then the flash
of that day in the woods

when all was motionless
sight and sound until the first
drops of rain began to rattle
against the dry autumn leaves.


From Awaiting the Images


Embed from Getty Images

I followed my ghost
for hours last night,
wandering from year
to year, event to event,
watching the haunting
progression of someone
who will never be again.


we find religion in currency
then make currency religion.

pass the plate around
or put it on plastic –

onward christian soldiers
replaced with charging

for the kingdom, jets and all,
politics be damned –

bow down to the dollar
and you will be blessed.

prosperity for the preachers,
mega mortgages for the masses.