Two Shorts

waiting

that this leads to no-
where is clear now. each
in its own spot, cars
form the vertebrae of a cobra
refusing to slither
when only a moment ago
it had a different intention,
one can only twist
to cool the glued butt.
engines flare like tempers.
passengers sit dreaming of
antivenom, wait for the burning sun
to melt the scales.

archeologos

words trip on the tongue,
to a personal saraband,
slip away from the mouth,
fly into airspace - curious
creatures of mind's fever,
tentative like dawn's yellow,
till they see the vast
blue, then soar like rogue
laughter. pen, like a camera,
makes rote attempts
at copy, captures only
outlines. how quickly they
become ancient fauna, ptero-
dactyls on paper.