For Mark T.

Into stark night frosted black with fate we slip,
conditioned to deny the western progress of the sun.
Awake but for a while to wonder,
we fan our fleeting passions to flame
and embrace each day in willful ignorance,
blind to the inevitable—

Love’s sweet prelude to loss.


This is my home,
settled in the saying—
a common abode
and comfortable:
A foreign sensation,
for years unknown.

Do you notice?
Do my windows leak light?
Do silhouettes dance
their way to your eyes
in the glow?

I think it, but
I think it, unlikely.
I imagine you pass,
and I go unnoticed
as you make your own way
along your own road.


A tower stands among a fist of smaller structures,
middle finger to the sky—
Man’s “I am” answer to the world,
set against a lake and manipulated river,
immune to the wind.

What bold madness moves our hands
and drives our actions?
Surely there is no need,
no evolutionary imperative—
This is pride, pure and magnificent,
a child’s name carved in a tree.

Let the earth reject geometry,
let her bear our straight-line scars
and structured insults—
let her send her vines of promised reclamation.
We all know how this ends,
but by God, we are here.