1 New Poem

Names I Remember
The track-marked rhythm of motorbike engines,

every wheeling reel suffused in classic rock

twang, each hesitant quiver at midnight's door

in turnkey slash of tremor haunts.

They push against more wicked in ways,

replacing this all with brick cast and concrete;

yet

I still believe in haphazard promise of

green thrushlings at dawn, the

running waters rush of daybreak,

the thought of sweet scent carried

on winding pine thistles in caligraphic

winds, shaping Superior currents into old

faces.