Tuesday, August 3, 2010



pricks piecemeal the way
only time-tried, canyon-dry-run can.
Hope-love like water was running
too strong, too hard, it killed
the sane inhabitants of Me, and the rest,
the rumble-ready beach-diggers swam
with the current, and now—now!—days
are nothing but the hot sun
pounding dust with callous beams.