In whose sleep
do these dreams
caress
and carry the sweet hush
of echoes
'I love you'
requited in the distance

it has never been
for me
that clear like September
afternoons - cool
crisp - stirring a breeze
from the northwest blowing -

mine - like Whitman's -
is a voice
onward facing and flawed
falling
like an eagle toward
the lake-skin plunging

inspired by hunger

eager for release
that only death -
the crude poetry
can bring . . .