Killer was brown―
not white. Snowfall
covers the wounds of earth.
...
Was it kosher to wake
up a sleeping poem, when
someone has burned the book?
A rite of passage
...
Tribal instinct spares none.
You change the script,
and come out to see the murmuration
of a flock of starlings.
...
I thought we knew
each other by our shadows.
Stratosphere laughs.
...