A cinder,
neither coal nor ash,
my life,
clogs the roots of swaying carnations.
Fear, like a cheetah, runs faster than discretion.
Helplessly you tear off the last page
of the book
without reading the end.
One petaled coral, green,
hides the white death,
drowning the hope.
The river has changed the course,
without meaning, purpose,
meandering, engulfing the cardinal designs.
A homeless god wanders,
in my garden, to sit for a while
in the ruins of burnt umbers,
till the shrine is completed.
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
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