Cuneiform
I.
Another season,
another dream dancing dust
from graveyards,
particulate matter of old bones,
chants liturgies to deities in the wind.
Detritus of lost civilizations
swirls across tree tops,
whispering secrets of winter wind,
of memory forming and fading,
triumph of the mind's eye,
this victory of night air
breathing dust
through lattice or orange,
yellow and rust,
soon to be crumpled on earth
beneath frosty white
where fruit must fall
before seed grows anew.
Slow as the inching
of roots under soil,
slow as moonlight
casting conifer shadows
in forest mosaic,
filigree of moon shadows,
surging nocturne of dreams,
moss and lichen jewels.
Rivulets of earth blood sparkle,
spinning gush of plankton and minnow.
II.
Crawling through summer,
the grasses were sweet,
the sun warm and yellow.
Wild dreams danced
before the quickened breath:
lost awakenings in a dark season.
In bone-deep chill:
the frozen image
rose and lilac gardens
elusive now as birds flown south.
Nothing remains but cold grey daze.
Morbid underdreams scratch the soul
and cannot be reached.
Little ones turn their collars up
and walk backwards into the wind,
shoulders stiff, hands
tucked in sleeves.
III.
Here the city has no shelter
only speaks the sounds
of strangers living,
sounds of automotive animals
cruising accelerated egos
through streets:
un-muffled mating cries
disturbing a peace
that can only be imagined
as sirens slash night,
screeching pain:
someone's life,
violent, unnerving.
The city coughs its winter nightmare
just another season
of carbon monoxide,
washed-out winter hazes.
Memories dwindle
into street corners.
There is only the trash lady
muttering to herself
in the alley
looking for something
she'll never find
IV.
Here in dark diesel reflections
of chromium mirrored monoliths,
high tech intelligence data,
strained to speed bombs
toward great enemies
who learned to duck and cover
in school air raid drills
just like us.
Here the sea heaves life and death
onto ageless sand:
vacated husks of living things,
sludge-soaked seagull
black oil on wing.
The ocean has no answer,
only washes away the aberrant cuneiform.
Here we bury our dead,
dig hard earth with fingernails,
turn red faced from graves,
tears stuck, brave smiles.
Small cataracts
form over third eyes.
The workman sighs
in the kitchen.
Heavy feet tread
postponed dreams
across linoleum.