At night we had a big picture
Dark implicit crows sleeping

In foliage in a night’s silence.
Now , tree explodes in crows.

The caws play up to new sun
As if the new sun is gunshot

Heard across now gilded sea
From ship standing inside it

In another day’s wakefulness.
We see the almond tree’s sky

With its commotion of crows
And crows scatter their cries.



Sea waves are day’s quickest at stones.
It is the white foam where they splash.
The stones are amber like in the dream.

These stones shore us up against time.
They save a killer machine from death
A monster that lies lazily on past glory.

These stones are poem against waves.
The machine has turned  poem at sun.
A sky becomes Cerulian poem at dawn.


Fly away to beach

Crow ,do not sit in rust’s middle
On the television’s antenna dish

As if in the middle of flat earth.
Crow crow ,do not sit in a circle

Where we get news of humans
Pushing each other out of earth.

Crow, do not repeatedly shout
For relatives to arrive with bags.

Crow, fly away to beach where
A dead turtle is washed ashore.


Buffalos in space

Another time buffalos were little black dots
On our train’s eyes , so richly built on sound,

A clackety of a bridge rising from river bed
And brown sand flashes with the buffalo dots

Replaced by sand trucks part of our richness.
Our train has moved from horizontal space.

But the train and the bufflaos and the trucks
Lie stacked in filtered light in vertical space.


Counting loss

We need not trace fingers in sand grains
To count stars that flickered for counting.

We feel exempted from the star counting
Like the soldiers-to -be with lesser chests .

Chests heaved with an unnecessary pride
As night climbed over heads under trees

With stars above them ,in danger of falling.
We have lost count of their broken pieces,

That have turned fireflies in old counting.
We lie under a dark cloth of promontory

Thinking of several stars lost to the night.
There is nobody to count them this night.