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He is stuck again
between the spaces
of past and future,
moving along invisible
lines, bound to now
until it ends. How grim
an existence if not for dark
and light places revealing
the colors of grace sparkling
like the sun upon a dancing sea.


*From Awaiting the Images


He sits against a fence
listening to the wind slip
through the ragged slats –
Whispers, whines, groans
too low for the soul to bear.

Light drips from the willow
overhead, illuminated shapes
spring across the dirt and grass.
Wind. Nothing else. Emptiness
filled with rays of brazen life.