Husk

The last whiskers of a late winter ear of corn were withering into a dust when I heard the whistle of your sleeping sigh and thought you might not know me all that well.

But winter comes and winter goes, and corn goes away and grows and to the soil and trees and everything with eyes that can see years will say that brown and dull yellow can only lead to green. 

Image

 In a parked car, still,

staring at a redwood tree

Regretting the lack of courage

That starves the heart of me.

Memory

 The memory of a body

Infects my mind

A straight line up

Twenty-seven-odd rays of light

Must be from the window.

A field of brown or red,

Two black circles,

Centers, blue,

And I am slowly undone,

Speechless, disassembled

by the memory and you.