A pale white moon
Hung silent in the morning sky.
The lampshade sails of sampans
Caught the eye
Of one winged diver.
Working off a salt-ruined deck,
A copper collar round his neck,
He looks beneath the bay's still teal,
Reflected off the old half-wheel
Of mangrove and calamity
That circumscribed the irony.

His wings unfurl so quietly,
An alabaster fan
Of tension, as he makes his dive to
Fill the floating baskets of rattan,
The empty coffers of his sacrifice.

They placed the wafers made of rice
Into his waiting mouth.
The warm winds of the South
Will not again
Lick at his breast, no longer free,
He has cemented destiny,
Because of one time, profligate.
He kills but cannot consummate.

He peers beneath the cool
And silent layers of this pool
Containing life enough for many, unlike he,
Who did not trade their freedom for complacency.
He stalks for all, but lives for one
More time he might again hear
White wings chase a dying sun.

Noise

Against all reason,
Vieing as you do
With market swings
And countless perfect packages
Of things
Quite normal once, now sirens
Calling to our greed, our lust,
Our old reptilian memories,
From all the prophets whom we trust
To make us more of everything,
To make us blink, to make us sing
United in desire to be
So friction-free,
So much so that we need at last
Only ourselves.
Our needs become our progeny.

Against all reason,
Vieing as you must
With caffeine swings
And magazines,
The pleasures once reserved for kings,
The sweet, salacious barroom cat,
And if not that,
The pornographic monograph,

A single quiet laugh
Of yours
Is now enough to make my fingers burn,
To overturn
A world of such complexity
That when I stop to listen to
A universe of rage and heat,
I only hear my own heart beat.

Poetry Magazine