The Hunger 


My hunger for the poem
   doesn’t go away,

even well inside the mansion
   of my sleep.

Sometimes it wakes me from
   a perilous dream,

or worse, is written there, 
   so in the morning

all evidence is lost and only
   the hunger remains.  





Poem


A cataclysm sounds its soft-voiced sigh.
The gods have found the world too lacking life
and so will conjure up another try,
may even bet how long the next will take,
then laugh their eon selves awake and coil
up into little shells to wait as time
begins to wear away the brand new day.





Poem


The wind has brought a rush of rain.
The marrow of the hours is dry
inside the storming in my brain.
I want to speak. Instead ask why
again I don’t. Some things don’t change.

Tomorrow has a different sound
today, and all the nights arrange
in future missing you’s, have found
already where I hide my fears.
Otherwise, I’d never have to tell.

The storm inside is made of tears.
We’ve come to this, a parallel.
O darling you, in trouble where
we start, who says the rains don’t care.