Hunting with foxesA red fox lingers inthe school yard, ready toteach a gopher alesson.
Curves of a sunsetBlue-grey clouds peer abovethe curves of apeach horizon likelace across awoman's breasts.
City TimeWe're born withoutenough time(or a loud enough voice)to push paper andsound our 'yawp' over theskyscrapers of our world.Between the treesand the lightthere is every shadow tocount and a hundred leavesto catch at any given moment(because someone shouldhelp glue them on).Panic stricken, I forget who I am,though I know there aresix billion otherslike me.The individualismof my job that does everythingis lost in the moundsof paperwork, that don't belongon my desk, and for a momentthe "bang head here" signon my wall looks as thoughit could give me wings.Through the deafening soundof the ticking of the clock,the radio helps Marleytell me "ev'ry little 'tingis gonna be a'right"and I realizepaper, like time,burns quickly.
Into the Trembling SeaThere is a face disruptedin the shameless hues of reverie,broken from standing on her dreamsothers crushed beneath her feet.Once, she had consideredcasting the shardsinto the trembling seato find out if they would returnas polished glass,or as letters in bottles,soaked and unreadable.Beneath thirty-nine stars(it was there she lost count)the salt-spray caresses her faceand releases the adrenalineof inspirationuntil her pen moves without colourand writes without ink."Tomorrow," she tells the dahlias,"Tomorrow is the beginning of my life."
TruckFlakes of snow piled likepurified sand dunes againstthe flattened white-wall tiresof an almost forgotten 55' GMC truck.
IciclesPerched precariously over a gardendead from fall past,winter's rage threatens to fall.