By David Eide  


The last dark month carries the taste of wood ash.
Scintillating light rises against the slate-sky full of itself
A cat skitters forward and back without confidence; 
tears from far away are heard and they mean one more
sorrowful heart, punctured by words and acts.
Sounds are odd machines gone crazy as sour days greet one on waking.
What we have built stands on the shelf crying out, restless and angry. 
All those useless, restless, angry words spouting from the brain that made them!
The fire of youth collapses in a heap and burns the poets favorite toys. Ah memory,
savior of those who see a slump of black ash where vital cities once were.
The heavy jugs of time, streaked with failure, dance plaintively on the shoulders of an old man.
Night comes to the last dark month - we are carried on the beaks of vultures
                                                      far into the shadow of the Moon.