In The City

Rain falls soft in the graphite night it
runs down the world and all
seems to melt:
traffic lights into pavement;
people into umbrellas;
cars into headlights;
even the body I call my
own assimilates into
the view is no
longer mine to have and
hold, my surroundings
slip right through me (with
rain as a lubricant) into
a scene.

Wanderers

We are wanderers in a world where
wonder lies waste, splayed thin across
digital screens and cheap paper like a
slight dab of butter across stale bread, where
all expression has been etched into the few
lines of the face with little left to form
a gasp, or even a sigh, but we wander in
search of an apt reply to the echo-cry encoded
within the vacant streaks of a dying light
silent remains of a star in space long exploded.