©David Braden 2016

©David Braden 2016


nowhere but heretofore, sure

as the shock of it, the breath

and the name of It

in its infinite swiftness



the world whirling

with its pigeons, stacks

of boxes, and parts of things

varying in degrees

of importance

further, through the sea

of taillights, each

its own star – throngs

of unborn thoughts



emerge into

the splintered g-

lance lot of a dying man

wincing into the brightness

up at the stoic




standing on the fissure

of chill morning

behind his eyes

coming on

coming in



the stray wind

and her promise

of future thoughts


©David Braden 2016

David lives in Oakland and moves diagonally in time.

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