Goblets

In a melting pot,
into the wind,
bearded snow-flakes
tumble and blend.

In a Wichita banquet
the legs are erect
to a taste of new
flesh and warm wine.

In that cave on the lake
there’s a pillar, a stake,
that leans with the breeze
ever-rising.

In a goblet of rust
at the highest, gold peak
to a sun we can cheers
and the moon butts in.

In a rattle of staves,
decorated with shell,
salt shines the silver,
infinite grim holding.

In a melting pot,
into the wind,
into fleece
and for getting.

To Yield

To yield and climb
these buttered-rung heights
is to be something
above that station we have known.

This yielding is to
break the hands that hold
shoulders facing a
tired, setting sun of growing fire.

The yield of hope
is necessary when we know
what mistakes will come
to not collaborate but to eviscerate

and yield for nought
if you do not know. As the tired
limbs of trees glow;
that this is not make believe.

Forever in a yield to
whomever makes the
future a door ajar.
To which we yield in creaking hinge.

Where Crustaceans Lie

Aboard
Wet
And
Tired
This globe

Of new wave
Clustered
To
Silence
To
Mobilise

Too brave

They rave
With
The
Lone-
Ly
The rolling
The wet

Aboard
Wet
And
Tired
With
Just
Silhouette

To an
Inch
Blind
In
Caverns
To
Ne’er

Be freed
This
Infinite
Blanket
In
Peace
So

It
Leaves