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Collected Poetry

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poetry and digital art

Diesel Eddy  

Book three of impromptu trilogy.

  Morning at the Quarry


We lit filter cigarettes and pursed our lips
leaving eternity to burn like a match.   If
anything possessed a jealousy that could
articulate the absent night, the quarry still

rose in gray, reticent layers showing a desire
to be reclothed and remunerated for this.
The unexpected trees grew into a sunlight that
surely seemed so strong it could easily manifest

itself into something we could only honor as
the jist of our gathered affinities:  we did not
wish to remember or at any time to aid that which
allowed us to elude that which stalked us.  We did

not think of our beating hearts, or the shared risk,
or the brooding, assiduous certainties now beginning
      to gather about the quiet pond.



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