5 Cures
 
Beyond the fragile farm of living
where the gift of listening
is like a long extinguished ear
and every heart
is a cold gem whose luster
is lost.
Some hands reach out, ashamed
from the pulp of their loneliness
only to grasp at absence.
Some mouths open to say
what they can no longer say,
for there can be no sound
in the womb of the dead.

Old Wreckage
 
for the defect of my vision
that shed no tears
for the foam in my heart
that sunk to its secret depth
like a stone, for the wisdom
grown cold in my throat,
the words i never spoke,
for my cornered strength
i forgot i owned, i regret
the whirling axe of your tongue,
the thorns of your touch,
the love that furnished nothing
though i prayed for salvation
no god came.