18 Jan 2016 – Rust

I never noticed
angels in the drifting snow
that slants through street lights,

or heard love calling
in the rings long etched in trees
from feasts and famines.

Sleepwalking cities,
neon caught and held my eye –
I spat in shadows.

Do you hear sermons
in the bitter Winter winds
that whip the sidewalks?

The dying locust
are my contemplation now,
my heart well-rusted.