Good Evening, Suicide
Evening rushes in on blue sky veins,
throbbing parallel lines of life
pushed against the sharp autumn sunset.
They spill their secrets to the horizon,
bleeding oak red over the shaded hills.
Leaves fall limp to twilight’s breath,
sink slowly to the ground as slit wrists.
Its tepid bath grows a moonless dark.
The winter stars slip through the drain
when I’m not looking.
from Iodine Poetry Journal 7:2 (Fall/Winter 2006/2007) 17.