—–

notebook
with the poetry
of my long walk
slips off the
outhouse shelf,
disappearing
down the round hole…
when I tell her,
she states, laughing,
“now, they’re holey poems!”

—–

standing silently watching
a passenger train rolling by…
passenger train rolling…
passenger…
should I be on it?

—–

come, sacred footsteps,
and gather up this world’s
original voice, reaffirming
the sanctity of origins
within the song of
morning doves,
reaffirming the
newborn innocence
and necessary decency
of our decision
to be human

—–

and, finally,
never again.
maybe.

—–