Missing in Action a

In pruient muddles of life

We make prudish puddles.

And prudish puddles run-off, run.

Run down the alley not too far

From my home, home in the valley

On the far hills of the shadow

That dwells still after torrential

Thaw of my life's blood of strife-free


No pruience, no foul. Play words

As you will

The rapture does not quite heal

The rasp of her voiced concern

Was at odds

With the melancholy

Wings of lithe


Talking to my body. It talks back.

The weight of breath is this that

The skein of

The congesting stresses of

The custodial confines of fine promises

The "special place where bricks or colored threads are handled"

The choked torment and joy

Enfolded unfolded.

Speaking to life. It talks back.