Closing Lines of Unwritten Poems

Violet exhaust at morning

Ancients of days, valley of the winds

The road is lined with gold behind you, the goal was always useless

The sun, epicurean, casts a wide aperture

I'm just an innertube filled with light

Journalists trade in clichés under orange blossoms

One zippy-jacket away from the room

A kind of respect that chills to the bone

Mr. Church, the atheist, could tame a snake

An unexamined grieving stakes the heart of what is glossed

The querelous float in swimming pools plastic dragons on their arms

The train though ashen ruins, alive with the sound of birds

The mouth-watering phonetics of the Arizona Opry

Rainbow donuts

The clarity of the already broken

The evening sky cracked panes of frosted glass

Fall's black palm berries