Untitled Poem
As dust collects, the moon appears
and hovers over playing fields,
the grass awash in opal green,
the leisure of the dying day.
A collar and a tie drop down
into a pool of splash-making
my not shed from my am, and yet
fragments misplaced on the way.
And dust collects, head soon full
of broken words and shards of day,
tyrant poems demanding peace
where frazzled strands are all I have.
The Consolations of Writing 