Make Haste

It is almost
upon us.
Past and future collapse
or collide in that tense Culture Shock,
a suitcase condensed
yet fitfully packed.

 

on the distortion of anecdote

the ghost girl
dances in and out of papered walls
Does she dream of freedom
or of ending the fall?
If your slaves won,
would they lord it over
overlords? Or
would they simply go away
to be heard of nevermore?

A Rose For Iris

 

icons crossed
stars tossed
into an open sky
which smiles down
upon a lake of slate and chalk

Let It Be Said, Leda Never Led