the titles reached up high,
the mountains of fantasy
dominating the upper reaches
in long stretches of hard-to-say
names and strange england-like
lands, then came the crime
in black-and-white city streets
and men with eyes too haggard,
then bright-souled coming of age
novels, asking for optimism and love.

at the bottom sat the poems
tucked into notebooks.


“Boiled Wonders”

It takes a certain kind of author
to write about losing your
shadow, and then losing
your mind. Some special
burst in insight implied.

“Ruined Halls”

The ruined halls run whispers
in sad circles around me.

The people lost, the names dropped,
called out for a listener.

An age of outcasts outcry
for a justice never meant to come.

A league of liars leap
to pledge a help dishonest.

A tribe of temples tell
a thousand souls to pray.

but every voice means nothing.