Selection of Poetry

The silhouette of a winter willow

cuts a lonely shape against

the night sky.

Along the deserted road

the city is a light box of

artificial consolation.

The stars pace us, mocking the distances

at the end of the evenings’ make-happy rituals.

The moon prowling low over rooftops

is a brooding monument of

shadow and light to the mystery.

But we are adept -

spinning a new language

around the old inertias

because fear is history’s seminal work -

our way of life.

And we remain locked in the

private reading rooms of the mind.

It’s a fragile peace

the man on the radio said.