Random Acts of Poetry

Meditation

Imagine a calm vista of him:
no more ring of tension,
no memento of costly outbursts
that filled tissue after tissue
with tears.

He is a smooth-running engine,
repaired and comfortable
with every metallic edge,
with a salty sea of corrosion,
while refineries pump their soothing oil.

The night is bathed
with a wet fog, a cool washcloth
that dampens the fire in the forest--
nude trees assuming
the color of iron--

and the secrets that swirl
behind his forehead:
blackened images flying
like witches above the Pacific,
chasing a teeming moon.

~~~

Meanwhile...

Do you need a pan flute? Nah. Or maybe a new god?