Evenings

I can't say I remember you all the time
but, some days when as a dried leaf
I traverse those roads
I think of you.
And as the breeze unfurls the evening
I remember your hair
flying into my face.

Visions

What use are the visions of a dying man
even if they are about a happy place?
In the silence between sobs
he mumbles with excitement
and the sobs rise in pitch
drowning his faint voice.

Buzz

The buzz around bread and butter keeps me away
from the poetry in life.
Lately I realize that poetry is
for sleepy afternoons and dimly lit evenings.
The blazing mornings need something else.
Something un-poetic.