The Fire

One spark an errant

future sent

careening as all

futures must.

On the hillside

the orchard stood

fruit ripe

as fire alight

forced

apple peddling

a way of life

far away

from mountain russets.

The Editors

Declined,

not rejected

Can’t keep anything,

not selected

Paring their words

my skin still shed

I seem to have

lived in sin

excreta I’ve read

That Bright Spot

A room of windows

western tending in a

northern facing house

To a small boy,

Huge.

So bright

during dinner

preceded by prayer

Uncle Rayburn

invoking

joined hands.

Storms of Illusion

You know there are

moments

of clarity

When  you cast about

for some

predictable plan