Sunday, July 30, 2006



in fields of tobacco
I would ride the machine and prime brown leaves
dreaming about our nights—together—

call it love—or phemones singing the future fantastic—
though anyone else—

would you call it magic—this inability to explain
what seems so simple for a moment

I never imagined you to be smoke and mirrors—
but rather a tenant in a shared building—

you facing east and I facing west as we view
the sun on a horizon forever defining the same land—
even if we can only hold a conversation in north and south


Lyle Daggett said...

I like this. A sweet tender poem.

H. W. Alexy said...

Thanks Lyle,

I hope the sense of angst is also there. What we have is always there to lose.