On Reading Poetry

dusty stones
throwing back a full moon's gaze
fly off tired black Nikes
hypnotic tick tocs
lost count long ago
on an august road to nowhere, somewhere
who knows

then

as surprising as the crack of an assassin's rifle
flint kisses hard
a soft pebble edge
flash
sucks the night breath out of my lungs
hit dirt
frisson face first
grab a hand full of ground
and feel
tectonic rumbles
upon my pounding chest

-Stanley A. Baldwin-