How leaves lie around his house…placed, as if in a certain order.

How the sky is colorless above his roof, matching the freeways.


The only chance for him to see color and chaos is the sea

But the ocean is forbidden inland, its heavy hand sits off shore.

So, waves curl upon themselves, tucking him inside his room

Where his body…a frequency, has a levy built around it

Softening the sound of clearness, roughening his outer crust

Into manipulations so silent even he doesn’t know their tide tables.


How the house deflects rain, black and white upon impact.

How leaves are secretly switched without regard to the trees.


The only chance for him to have depth is found in the forest

But today it’s a dull red, dried blood, a dust-filled breath.

The trail… overgrown, hushes thoughts, especially his own.

He can’t hear himself, so he can’t hear others, deaf leaf.

He fumbles amongst mud puddles, hunting his reflection

But he can only see his river as a frozen image, devoid of moisture.


How his house fights the sky, but clouds repeat soft rhythms.

How the wind knocks ceaselessly on his door, he cannot hear it.


(Click on image to enlarge-Underneath Lower South Falls, Silver Falls State Park)

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