Poems and Prose #36 - Whiff

A gust of wind slaps my face,
as I gaze into the sky-spanning space,
certain that this is a temporary place,
less so that I can't be replaced.

I hold up my hand and the moon's erased,
its lingering halo a spit-inducing taste,
while I stand still in the air's drab embrace,
never one to decide with concern or in haste.

Poems and Prose #35 - Gyration

All around,
   the vortex rotates,
crackling with
   the bits and specks
the darkened core
   now insufflates.

The swirl of
   matter corrugates
each gust of
   grimy, wily wind,
separate from the
   air it isolates.