July 25

the poem I composed before sleep
was short but to the point
it caught some bit of the day
and turned it into something whole
I recall that it held a form
smooth with a certain heft
all day I've wrestled with its absence
I am thinking and longing for its return
knowing that it has passed into that mind
which lives beside my own
where my cup of tea is a chalice
a hollowed root with burning aura
filled with mother's milk
I doubt it will ever return

Vegas

There's a cross
in the desert sky
where two contrails meet.
An X drawn on a blue so stark
it must mean something,
I think.
Is it up there or down here,
this spot the X marks?

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