On the gold prairie,
silver competes
with the dew.
Grass saws air
clean enough for surgery.
Somewhere below the graves,
a sea of oil lapping against earth.
What will happen
when the men with
long claws and downward hunger
stumble on this peculiar paradise?
The air on this prairie chases water,
Scrambling and wrestling in the brush with
The most minimal nuclei of cloud.
From the top of the bluff,
Hard work stares me down
Black eyed and stoic.
What will this land yield to me,
With my watering mouth,
My parched skin?
The Sky Is
Enormous.
Silent.
Private.
Global Warming
Beneath a polar pink sky,
white animal seeks ice.
Ice is life.
Southward,
the children of the Earth
row their rafters and doors,
looking for the beach.
Always now the beach moves,
Eats,
bulges.
A patch of ice so blue as to hold heaven
shrinks under the gaze of a judgmental Son.
Miniature Moon 