(Old stuff; I wrote this when I was still living in Miami.)

The day of sun
the day and its
torturous heat,
bring me the
night I plead.
Give me the
bright moon of
voices finely
aged I reach
for them, these
heroes I keep.

In essence
never apart I
want to speak
to old Walt,
Emily, Hart, I
want to reach
them. The
way a sudden
cut bleeds the
day of summer
leads to fall,
certain death
dry reeds us
all.

In time against
we race. I will
stop, will cease
the denial and
observe these
trees around me.
The acadamy of
bards I wish to
meet the poets,
where is Ginsburg,
Creely?
I want to speak to
someone who has
no interest in
understanding me
but only wants to
see.