Nightmare

Like a winged phantom
You hover ‘round my head
Waiting until darkness falls.

Your eyes bore holes
Through which you eat my heart.
I crawl, wounded into morning.
I cannot go,
I cannot heal.

I wait,
For the sound of your wings.

**

For Maurice Krafft:
The ‘Living Geologist’

His boots are melting
Laces to ash
Gold buckles to
Molten metal
Against naked flesh.

Too much
Love
Holds.
Consumed
In fire.

Ashes to ashes;
Finally,
Dust.

He grows roots,
Clovers spring,
Free,
He remains.