Two Poems (April 9, 2009. New Pink Moon. Issue 3)

Red Clay

My blood has a scent of iron
of metal that permeates
the ground. Looks like
someone in the past
with a sword loosed a million
veins from their fill and
a great pulse pushed my land
to redness. This clay
is rusted wine, a belt of the clotted
and released.  We have buried
so many here that we can't
hide it anymore.

Late, Very Late

Where does morning begin
where before the blue mist
and after midnight?

What crease is crossed
to enter a world of slight
of Monet of pink?

I disregard the numbers
given to direct us all
without consent.

Rather there is no line
no border no wound
to bury the preceding night.

Just me right now in this
place. The moment
gives up its answer.