His Room

The piano with its lid down
is a lung. White light
assumes the dust in it is poison,
dies quickly. Until the moon
the only sound is
breath of wood and strings.
He sings, but as little like a wolf
as loneliness resembles being loved.


(c) 2007 JL Williams

The Hole in the Tree

Time, whose life depends on ours,
keeps its secrets as only the best lovers can,
those we meet in passing
in places with no name
where joys exist purely
and are possessed completely
though not at all.


(c) 2007 JL Williams