Quick Looks from a Small-Faced World

~ Dense

Clouds, no moon, no stars, no birds
At dawn, no cars, no folks, no

Crime, no wars, no fires, no smoke,
Not here, right now, not on this

Cliff perched on the edge of drought
On a rare day it might rain

~ What Is It in This Day?

The sweet smell of the dull.
Clouds and a chance of rain.
News far off; none up close.

The birds were late to sing.
The moon, old rock, slipped out,
And the sun, old god, rose,

Both the far side of clouds.
There is no cause for this joy,
If not that there’s no cause

For fresh dread, no new pains
Of the flesh, no new wars,
Just the old, an old kind

Of day, new to the list
Of old days. The list grows.
Some birds show. The wind goes.

~ And the World Is a More Blank Space, for a While

When the rain comes, it’s snow—
Not sleet—dense spheres of white,
But not as hard as hail.

The day still feels right, feels like
It could be, will be right.
Two men on bikes push through

The snow, push up the slope.
For them this day will be
A tale—how a tour booked

For hot and dry high buttes
In this west in a drought
Turned to a slog through snow.

There’s a ring of pearl light,
Like a lamp on a page
That’s still blank, at that edge

Where the cliffs hold the clouds.
It’s like a small smile, sweet face,
A child too young to talk.