Beauty is a loving balm
that seeks to heal
the ache of death riding the horizon
drives by in a blur, shoots randomly
drops bombs, breathes fire  

Is that death now? — Revving up his engine
in the parking lot?
Why does he park so close to the house?  

He encircles us
stepping lightly
I hear fingertips touching
the mural on our side wall
gliding even closer
leaning in
but then a stumble
hesitating
stillness
a deafening silence
before he moves on
into the dark of night  

The Beauty of Morning
finds his broken bottles
and medicinal discards by our gate  

He did not find
what he wanted
here last night
and
rode on