words hushed

to forget my line
across the street the crowd
opposite my thoughts crowded
in my brick building mind
there are willow trees
lining the dirt paths
that used to be dustless
still the little brick corners
prick up catching my heels
from the corner of my dry right eye
i catch Fante in a grey suit
head bowed writing on a pad
golf pencil a story about a girl
straight ahead the afternoon
pierced in the heart by pigeons
scared into the sky
by wailing fire trucks
and my face dead on
the Mexican artisanal mirror
my lips red my words hushed

in one twenty twenty one

they the prophets write
words chilling to think all through
numb symbols of prole

could it be they be
saviours with synthetic inks
prayers that result

mbrazfield (c) 2020

tragedy smiling
far out into the clouds go
fumes of redemption

season of promise
idols showing their true forms
flowers in the eyes

mother of pearl moon
tonight the uncertainty
oozes out surely

forrest for the trees

photo by Rob Banks (c) 2020

alone
world at his fingertips
one
the wires carry all
crossing
the borders of time
boundaries
broken at hyper speed
to
win a race with out tracks
heal
his eye artificially at a glance
the
megabytes of dying ghosts
need
of any host the mark
of
godly hands to drill us in
the
when all is lightning sting
human
dust nothing to breathe but
spirit