Love and Dust

Man, It's late!
And that "purple dusk" is not an hour, but a decade.
How long since you wandered down the lane?

Love and Dust.

Little scratches in the groove from so much play.
I can't forget you. I can't forget you.
Dreaming of a song.

Love and Dust

I was never near that garden.
Where the flower blooms.
I dream in vain.

Love and Dust

Little stars climb.
Will not die.
Now my consolation

This nightengale

Sand

My sand, if it can be any man's,
falling with a gentle sibilence,
less course than the breaking curls
of the indifferent pacific,
leaving my hand, finally,
with a soiled memory,
ghost of my own choosing,
a film which I can no longer see,
no longer feel, but will exist
until I forget. Forget my own hand,
having held at the same time
such joy and sorrow
in the curving face of a winter's moon.
When the sound falls into silence,
my hand empty,
what is it that I can call my own?

Walls

This corner, where walls meet
The paint cracks
Signs of age, when was it made?

Coat upon coat, but no warmth
Covering the past
In a rich new layer, can you smell?

The greens and browns of yesterday
Drying forgotten
Under a new stroke, remember?

That glossy wash spread wide
But thin
A little wear, and the illusion is exposed

By a few chips and some dust
Off color
Where the walls come together