Dense
Are the thoughts
Which strangle
Like vines
On a fallen branch

Near roadways
Wet with rainfall
Whose puddles
House
Such lies

When pools
Of muddied faces
Bear reflections
Dark
And secret

Drowned
In nature’s mirrors
From a storm
Where twigs
Will fall

Among leaves
Or scattered stones
Upturned
By winds
Less scathing

Than sediments
Weighing heaviest
On minds
That seek
Their chance

To expel
Such sullied fates
Like debris
Of blowing
Pieces

From trees
And broken timber
Upon asphalt
Coarse
Yet damp

Soaked
With running fears
And their doubts
Cascading
Gently

Like streets
Of streaming moments
Beneath heavens
Bathed
In clouds

And tears
Their sudden threat
From the sun
Which follows
Grayness

Between past
And coming daylight
For this memory
Trapped
As wood.

– J. Pigno