Though invisible,
it exhibits
fluid, unctuous shadows
around my shadow.
The fumes, even in my hair,
hoop and halo
then expire
in their own mirage. The rush
of a passing bus
sweeps morning up
in devils and I’m loosed
on the heatstruck
crosswalk. Swiftly,
in the molten flow
of asphalt and medians
and autoelephants,
I no longer sense
the aura you lent.
Monthly Archives: February 2014
The Color of an Unconscious Feeling
A recent cup,
cheek-like
in hue and shape,
wonders whether
feeling full
is really better.
Under a red sweater
on the counter
two keys
listen: the cat’s wheeze
a sign nothing’s
pressing. Outside,
leaves wrangle
wild breezes and noon
eases into after.
Midday
In the new grass
a cat left his nap,
a sleep shape
where the stems
lie flat.
A naturalist, I collect
naps, but so does the rain
the clouds are threatening
and I don’t mind
giving in
to Spring.
Wheel Sun
Under the hayflower
falling, we found her
seated, selling woven stuffs
in skirt relief
(delicate bird-lice
wax left
besting indigo bleeds).
Patterns, with the needs
of the wearer,
recede. Under the hayflower
falling, she felt
the fabric
folklore, soft
on the tops
of her knees, her feet,
light as lighting the morning
fire’s footfalls, dyed
vast shades of dawn,
twice as deep.
No Matter
The future pales
to lavender
the way sunsets do,
the edge of the earth
the door
day departs through.
Shifting hearts, like low
dunes, still warm
with afternoon,
welcome night, unfixed
as new-sown stars.
Microcosmos
In need of a cloud
to carry us—
the kind that keep
a hold and move
like the wide world,
so imperceptibly slow,
past planets small
as stars, with the earth
so far below somehow
life stills,
swirls of white
on blue
obscuring the shapes
of landmasses
we learned in school.
New Ways Awake
The effort, a deep down-hinge of wings,
a sea sigh
we feel
as osprey rise
ever higher, into thinner atmosphere
and we can’t remember, sand
in the corners of our eyes.
No Absolute Endings Overhead
Night and herons pass
between trees,
the intermittent bus
with its dim
foci approaching.
Home by unfamiliar
roads, in the clearing
the low moon
shows. Routine
passengers drift
near sleep. Alert
to passing time, I am
awake with the wait.
Spider Made
In hammocks you collect
ceilings, my hairweight
household (especially us
sigh gnats—littlemouthed
to sound
to us
like much). All thin fingers,
you spin wooly air—
not so high,
not quite as carefully,
whine lazy passersby—
the cat, a sound wave,
a broom, the usual roomful
of interested
in the day to day, the way
webs take influence easily.