Working The Dream Exchange

I go down grassy
Dunes, with sling
Of tools, to the
Beach --littered
With leather straps,
Brass buckles,
Shin boots, hobbles--
Where souls rode in
On waves that rolled
Out of bridles,
Surcingles and slid
Back out to sea.
They are little use
To me, but I untangle,
Sort and store them
On sand for those
Who strike out,
Traces in hand,
From this shore
And need them more.

Garcia Bend

On this side of
The levee you
Can hear the
Heavy bray of
Barges --sound
Delivered to
A child whose
World enlarges
By the river.
The other side
Is still wild.

Short Term Prophecy

Day exasperating in
Every particular.
All its doubts so far
Nagging, deliberate.
Time pinched, dodgy,
Going late --we wake
Bewildered.
Things skid off,
Break --we learn
Wilderness.
An unkind day,
Nattering, unpunctual,
In no way
Flattering, functional
Or fit for memory.
Yet I'll remember
It, this silly day,
And like it anyway.