Fragmented No. 9

At the other end, sky’s vapor
on nearby beams, heavy light
opening neither life nor death

… in the distance, late, night,
I remember too much

The edge of my shadow is heading
for autumn’s trees: red leaves
tipped like needles

… nothing is moving, everything
is breathing, less

Describing pleasure: she, at
my fingertips, body, pure,

… she was snow and desert, both
tropical and polar

Now, in dull crowds, alone, with
quite moments, everything collapses,
confidence mislaid

… always the thunder, never the rain,
there is room for a full storm

Fragmented No. 28

Stars in the water’s reflection
stars in the glass reflections
dust on the sill,
the sound of dust / carried
by the wind / death
carried by the dust

It’s late in November
and a window is splintered
and the sky /
a dark screen that resembles
heartaches / and somebody
is walking, away …

Not a drop of rain, the earth
is dry / and everything
has falling asleep / and when
I close my eyes
the sky is gone / and the open door

trembles, and near the doorway tired
dreams / with hope running down
from heavy eyes
in black streams / darker
above the heart

and footsteps, like wings beating
the concrete / as the air spreads
out and / starlight
on the window
holds the cracked pane in place

Fragmented No. 30

falling leaves / ushered to the ground
by their shadows / the smoke above houses
connecting to the sky / fragments of ice,
the glassware of winter …

under the cold, life is brittle.

the leftovers of warmth, struggling,
held together by thin light / a man walking
with the weight of January on his back
/ a yard with canine emotions …

barking dogs, colliding.

along the city’s edge / homeless camps
rise, like black wind and dirt / like hunger
and loss / deep in their own landfills / like
open graves, clumped …

and the wind keeps racing.

the sun rises / then slumps behind
a train of clouds / a woman runs for a bus
/ another, running in the distance /
somebody climbs a ladder …

the air is featureless.

in my head / the same tired conversations
/ where neither of us understood the other,
the two of us / walking different lines
in opposite directions …

darkness impaired the light.

DAH is a multiple Pushcart and Best Of The Net nominee, and the lead editor for the poetry critique group, The Lounge. The author of nine books of poetry, DAH lives in Berkeley, California, and has been teaching yoga to children in public and private schools, since 2005. He is working on his tenth poetry book, which is due for release in September 2020, from Clare Songbirds Press.

visit: www.dahlusion.wordpress.com
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