Monday, October 15, 2007


When bells have stilled
and the dead tongues of stone
sit named and etched with dates:
an apple gets cored by ants.

When the sun dances
on old headstones, a noose
unravels: disarmed - the rope
comes free from its branch.

Our national time passes slow.


Anonymous said...

you have a new fan.


Anonymous said...

I think I like your writing. Better to think, though. Liking would require a soul or at least bread pudding.