Bond hold dug out . native well run dry
release risk hands . vein red line designs.
Boy and girl look in the mirror . wonder how
soon if not today . it will happen.
His thought flow on the page is hacked 'n' bled
by blade cleansing syllables as closed knees row.
The whites of their eyes keep daring you to shoot
or view the history of geese flight forming.
A cube of ice slips off the sheet . tinkles in clear
glass melt that waits the next world order.
Packed boats swim off ocean hearse rehearsing
left hope borders lift behind.
Soon in camps sand pitched or paved it will be
spring : you may go outside, children . play Mary,
Hail again . seabirds over passing trawler snags
wing dip as floaters beach ~ moon ports sigh.
– W.W.
WAITING ON THE WAITRESS
Empty hands need fire
to play with, to burn by,
so as to smoke a new
map of the world in her tired
face now shadowing like a cloud
the questions of your open hand
(from "The Gift Of Screws" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 