Friday, October 23, 2015


If the facts
are all plot, and
the plot—simply

details, and if 
words are just hollow magic

tricks to make the wind 
appear more reliable

and solid
than it really is,
and if

even our bravest intentions
to convey what's merely
literary—are only

the shards
of some
shattered, shared

soul of a
soundless-in-vast-perpetuity universe

which is moving forever
toward frozen oblivion 
without ever really changing it's direction—

Then what?
What's left? in that landscape
to survey?

I see only these
stray epiphanies—crumbling architecture
with some pretty

cool gargoyles
peering back
from the rubble.