Peering in


I'll write like the whites

of my eyes are red with

sleep-needy vein bulges,

and believe me, they will be.

Hours after hours of work,

the world is a.m. quiet,

and these are my silences.

Where my feet weary words

won't be taken the wrong way.

The creek bed's been dry

for some time. My thoughts

are blind-folded recurrences.

I'll listen for the sadness

in the pinetrees to fully

culminate. Wiser now after

the fires of adolescence have

been extinguished.