I’ll return here
time and time
new old, old new
so thanks for reading,
commenting,
nothing is the same.

“I love that brick,” a man will say.
“It’s the perfect size and weight.”
The brick will do whatever it takes
and wonders if he will ever press steaks.

Late afternoon air, cooling,
may light his way
toward snaking dusk rhythms,
painted dance, sparking fires–
another late night after all.

For now, a dream lingers
from his morning nap, replaces
wakening thought–groggy,
“How will I hunt?
Why should I?”

Death and God chatted by a punchbowl;
the hunter, cradling a cup, shabby, itchy,
saw them sip pink drink
between attractive guests.

Death was taller than God, and thinner.
God was pale, calm.
Death tanned, self-conscious.

Hatless, both wore white.
Neither smiled nor frowned.
The hunter glimpsed heads nodding.
No one’s eyes met another’s.

Just before the hunter woke,
God filled Death’s cup.

A cold river slap
sparks his senses to light
under a gentle sun.
Off the hunter goes.

I pray death
bursts my veins
in a rush, before
I have a chance
to think

Thunderstorms slant south.
Gray shades in layered swaths
pose no threat, no need to find cover;
spotter activation will not be necessary.
Still we share in torpid heat easing,
finally roused and urged to lumber on.