Poetry

The shovel 
moves the wet earth 
noiselessly. 
 
Your path goes to dark, 
in the jungle fire 
through Sunset Boulevard. 
 
Father of my father 
used to drink a pitcher, of black tea, daily, 
to stay alert. 
 
He would tell me, 
“Do what you wanted to do.” 
 
The rain will not stop 
for sometime. Why don’t 
you go to sleep? 
 
The fury of the 
flood, will not break 
the pride of an oracle.