The Icicle

The icicle on the undercarriage

Is flown about

Over rivers of gravel and concrete

Violently shaken by the wind

And the machine

The vehicle's purpose always

Drawn up without regard

To its fragile existence

And behind the clouds

The sun waits patiently

For the unveiling that is death

The motion ends

Pit stop or refuel or destination

And a careless foot

De-roots the thing

The fall and shatter

Are no testimony

To sun or wind or gravel

The foot no testimony

To God or man or Devil

Ode to Autumn

Gasps...        Gasps...

Lastly?

The eyes strain

Corners fleeing each other

The room mocks the machine

..

...

Lastly?

The smell of fireflies

Summer night

.

Tidal

The thick darkness is forced back

By the lights, planted in the ground

Around the structure

It as bright as the moon

On such a night

And in some ways as deceivingly

Unordinary

Inside is not to be found inhabitant

Nor goods, nor furniture

Nor even remnants suggesting

Memory of such

No; all is pristine, 

Unnaturally clean even

It is a place made

For the appearance

Appearance of great potential,

For life

But life itself would be it's ruin

Outside, far outside

Across borders, an ocean

Seven cold forms huddle

Round a small fire

And are rained upon

They shake, only slightly

Having become accustomed to cold

But sway also-

Sway

Back and forth,

Tidal