The embankment lies as heavy
edges on our lives.
The shadows of the rock,
piled drifts huge monotony's ledge,
accumulations by the side of the tree
wear thin visages;
the breath of summer eclipsed.
Snow reigns supreme;
teeters about the rim
of the city's existence.
Pettiness of man's realm -
pretty foliage of the transient,
wrappings upon our lives
brittle near the storm.
The reply of the eternal,
fire on stone
blazons reality
the peaked remains
of snow streaked sun.
Immensity governs us;
clarity of the temporal
fire set by the staccato
of man's rhythm.
[34]
CIENFUEGOS
The white pin wheel of heat turns up the grasses' edge.
Some dried plant stalks shrivel,
then melt openly into layers of fire.
It is end - time for the community's Christmas trees.
Something akin to burnt offerings,
reluctant souls or
hedging captives kept alive
ghoulishly for some cannibal's feast;
this festival of crackling.
They have served their purpose, now.
Bound, no faggots need be applied.
Contumely, the quiet desperation darkens
the child's face.
The headlights rain down on Christmas' debris.
A hundred little fires as cigarette warnings
daub the night air.
The forest of smoke, canyon of the torch,
where black marauders poke the nostril.
[35]
DEVASTATION
Little red berries are
the crop of this stump tree.
They are the prize stubble
where little growth is come.
A transplant of hair after
a serious illness
or after fire ravages
the body's wilderness
is that first sip of broth taken.
Little by little, they bring cautious
hope that more will
stumble into other pocket crevices,
the bits of life amidst the spores of stillness.
[36]