Your Own Time, Child

for kings there are too many moves
that advance before the stopwatch
paper about today it burns hope
at the feet of unidentified charity
these are away messages
on the run from mid-lives
we are medea’s children
playing nearer my god on deck
fortune tellers that shuffle cards
to chase stomachs down hallways
in aspersion to the financial sector
this land is covered in bad debt and
is a hunting ground for new translation
it is without champions at close of season

Snows at Easter

breath is warm in december
we first stand still and do nothing
for that warble of complaints
i was told this would be music
of untender deeds of adolescence
silent as braves in their scouting
that color outside the lines
until we are perfect storms
together overpainted lessons
of boots at fire season home life
buried in unanswered voice mails
that crack thunder in limitless sky
ten year old argument fades speechless
when the sun our help again