Recovery of Sorts

Revised 8/12/2012:

Thunder splits a cumulonimbus mash;

denying light

refusing sun

deflecting clarity on every plane.

A river of words evaporates through a

cauliflower of mud sludge:

blocking, blockading.

A beggared man,
squeegee in hand,

clears the murky panes

nothing to give—

fleeting memory fading fast.

It is there to be had…

capture it, set in stone

the truth recovered once again

again and again

for the last time

for now.

Untitled

Once a whirling dervish without restraint,

here and there a dance on wind

as spiders toiled in vain to hook

a wisp of leg or arm;

the will of this one a stone

plopped through woven webbing

left a  gaping hole of unpaired threads

fluttering like severed strings

on cut-off jeans.