Weekly Poem: Georgia at ‘The Black Place’
I sit
between black lava and ash
dust-brushed and shaken
amid suggestion of bone
in the curve of the place without sky
rose-lipped clouds beneath…
Weekly Poetry: Wrung in the Wind
Wind waggles the small oriole,
plume-bulged, through the intersection,
and he crosses off to the side:
ragged wing, swoop black –
he nicks the street near the orange jeep,
leans in half-numb, I think,
with all this strew
and whistle. Sky sails to a blue roof…