hourstruck
Our butterfly summer has faded to moth-
eaten memory in the worthless dark
before dawn, when merry-
making has turned sour
into self-parody
more poignant than a
flock of priests
red-faced in the gutter
the broken spring of faith
or dismembered dragonflies
cellophane stained glass
and an offering of flame
to the purity that burned us.

Plastic & Tar
I take a pick-axe to the pavement of time
Splintering cracks in fault-lines we laid
where once we lay smooth-skinned
now stretch-marked and scarred with traverse
such is the birth of souls
Prying these pale reflections of light we cast
thinking to see beyond ourselves
my nails bleed on severed stone
holding aloft what once shone
the recollection brighter than the reality.