Dreams Of

Dreams Of
Life is always ulgy,
On the other side.
Neither true nor real.
Sometimes when I look,
There's no wind.
What are they tilting toward?

Speak To Me of Death
The trees lived.
I am in the sun, living.
Gaze at my smile.
Whenever I smile.
It was the end of everything.

I use the Brooklyn Rail newspaper as collage material. I underline words and phrases within the newspaper, creating abstract poetry.