Derek Keck

The wind tore branches from the mother in the hospital, in death, kissing her child goodbye.

The wind gave the hawk speed in catching the field mouse.
...

They sat together like that, two old-boned birds
on the edge of a wishing well,
wondering when the other would fall asleep on all the
years of park bench they had known as a four-armed
...

She crept along the shoal of her home,
wondering if I dreamed of her.

She would ask me over the phone if
...

There was an old man
Who sat on a park bench for years
And nobody noticed
And the seasons changed
...

The hermit-monk sat smoking. the young boy,
having ridden long from the West his spurs and armor
glistening the eyes of harems in Damascus driving the
untouchables crazy near New Delhi catching Guinevere
...

The kitchen sink,
speaking so quietly
in the corner,
...

being a world and not being in one is a hard scale to balance,
because balance is a ghost sniffing butterflies
that have once flown but are now pinned under glass windows,
still in the act of trying to fly, maybe through time, but probably not,
...

Heart done with fingers in the window—
who created this?

I wonder, did you walk right from the past,
...

Black-night fighters of the sky
and cities burning metaphorically.

This is Dresden circa now.
...

...