Member Poem

for Mitch Snyder

Clouds are gray at Stinson Beach.
gray gulls give up their cries.

And hunger has no mouth to sing
beneath the pale of lowering skies.

And hunger has no mouth to sing,
no thought, no voice for sorrow.

Wind is hard at Stinson Beach,
cold again as cold tomorrow.

Waves can break a rock to shore
and never mean a bloody thing.

Stars may rise to hell and back,
and hunger has no mouth to sing.

​Appeared in Cold Tomorrows, Gothic Press, 1998