Graulus

Where are they now

the unnamed gods?

their hymns unsung,

 i will pour milk out upon 

the stones of their altar

when i can find them

 We still can feel

the sun on our faces

the staff in our hands

 hear the beckoning song

of the sea

What need have we of books

and collections?

 What keeps us going

and loving and showing up?

I call it Faith,

everything else is advertising.

Trifle

 If you were a fruit, 

you wouldn't be a pear

though your curve

bespeaks a cool and soothing air

No, if you were something 

  a hand can touch with dangling reach

         the eye straining to see through leaves

you might be a firm and ripening peach

   At this my turn of phrase breaks down

because you're not a thing to be devoured

 nor dropped into baskets on the ground 

   horita, I'm forced to conjure flowers

Durango

   On the ground, we pass

over the short grass, sharp

with the heat as it makes clumps

 with tiny shadows that look like

huts on the prairie

  here and there, little drifts 

of shredded plastic

stuck on bushes and 

making colonies in the 

 brown barbed wire

This nameless field crouching

down at the feet of 

dirty brick gods with

faded signs hushed

full of graffiti and blind doorways

Honestly, it is more a home

than the gardens I have seen

this place where we grew up

and learned to trust each other

and keep our secrets close, my brother.