Poem of Shannon.

DEAD MAN'S EYES

Watching the Moon

through a dead man's eyes,

I Thought again

of you.

of quiet coffee games

played

safe

in the minatour's

maze.

While monsters raged outside

thin pain-flecked walls

and a

traitor's Alice

stood watch,

smiling.

As I spat razors

and your

huge hand

on my belly

stilled starvation

with grave-yard

warmth and

I still don't

know how.

How many miles

away

from you,

I'll run,

till I find the

sun

and my feet

planted in

earthy loam

that tastes of

ashtrays,

and amber.

Remembering only

your hands in

my hair.

I wonder where

today would be

if the chasm

closed and only

I were brave

enough to stay.

Requiem for the basil.

Well, the basil did not survive. The temperatures last night were too much. I'm currently plucking and drying all the existing, wilted leaves to use as a dry spice for the rest of the winter. It's sad. They were so beautiful. The house smells of basil as we dry the leaves in the oven, which we leave open to keep the front part of the house warm. Two birds with one electricity outlay, and all that.

I'm sad today. Stress and hormones, I think, but sad. This multitude of wilted leaves seems to match my feeling of weight pressing down on me. I know it's just the worry about a job. I know it will pass.

But today, it's wilted basil and me.