It is to the point
that desirable leaders...
The dry air pulls my breath eastward
where desert calls in earnest yearning...
Only
the night Walker...
I cook with a plain wooden spoon
that has faint colors...
Is
there...
My craft, my life, my self
depend on meanings...
I lay in bed preparing
for the looming long chill...
You fall on me like a torrent
amidst the worst drought...
Your pin prick of scorn
devastates worse than anger...
Those days were captured
on the postcards I sent home...
Each man's hand itches
when he sees the sword impaled...
Sometimes bitter disappointment
keeps you from remembering...