Tomb

I looked in all the old places
Where the bones of the dead
And the stones they had become
Slept in each others arms.

Aliens in Our Midst

Aliens, asymmetric, brood in the dark crucibles of egg.

Who Presumes?

Who presumes to speak for the dispossessed;

Those who strip them bare like thieves and brigands;

Those who find affront in the naming of their dispossession?

The great unwashed heave themselves 

Through drab days; the poor are always with us.

Ozone Spindle Your Highness

The old dogs have barked their last and gone wild again:
Too many black nights baying at the moon’s dark heart.

432

I am old now, for a poet
Having four hundred and thirty two poems 

Scrawled in my name.

Boy

Ten years old,
Down a lane
Behind the school,
Outside primary seven
On the play-yard gravel,
Smitten.