Lost Cities

Five roads
unfinished, undestined,
banked with a scatter
of coin, their heads pitted
like a henhouse’s
seed-stippled ground,
clawed and pecked,
every path too low
or high to keep a footing on.
At every draw,
choice yields to regret,
every turn a wish
for a reversal, for
revision of the last,
a means to unmake the stretch
before and lay it new,
rescore, recast.

Read Full Post »

Scrabble

The ease of up, of us,
he and me,
we do and go
until the simple pairs,
the ax and the ox,
pass to oi, to ow,
to serrated burn of aa,
blast and flay of oe.
crack of broken os.

Read Full Post »