Two poems

Autumn is auburn in the ache of morning's rise,
with the senses senescent to gradients of blue.
Blearily bleached eyes run from sun filled openings
and hands try to hold onto semblances of sentences.
Creaking joints comply to pressure,
the watered down dawn of the dark.
Every eve kneels and sees overanxious stars
settling in to give up,
always to the endless swirl of senescent stars.


In Praise of a Straight Line

Steady
is something in
ironies best.
tonal
top down it goes in
syllabic stress.
straight way
until the y
downward.
a cliff
too deep to see
the bottom.
so eas
y it is to
ease up.
let go
and free yourself
from drag.
this is
why I praise the
certainty, the
sure foot,
the undeterred
straight line.