I was looking up linchpin when I thumbed past limpkinAnd looking up at a fighter jet when I drove right past my turnThey say the eye was photographedThen blown up large as a headAnd that man watching birds in a war zone? Don’t mind himIn a city of white domes he’ll say dove
Beaver-cut trees in an aspen grove. Cutthroat trout in pond shadow/
Listen to lies on the radio all morning.
Reflective means you can’t see inA pewter pitcher of wild sunflowersA man so confused about heaven, he said‘You can’t thread a needle with a spy’
When the fact falls asleep it becomes a face.One might call the sleeping face a fact but to do so would be wrong.I recall an experience I do not know if I lived it.
Dear E, I’m glad we got a chance to talk. It was not as nice to seeyou as I thought.
Discovery Channel gladiatorslave awarded wooden freedom swordrefusing it to plungeback into sex star status
Sand might be getting restless.How does sand feel about insectsas companions?
And sleep to grief as air is to the rain,upon waking, no explanation, just bluespoons of the eucalyptus measuringand pouring torrents. A kind of winter.
Thought tapers and snuffs; its thin wick sizzles. Deadyou die again; I walk the graveyard garden schemata;it plans assassination, my sex souvenired…
To follow in thoughtthe beloved into death?To stop. At panic?At limit? After words?
The cabin, once my father’s…
In short, this place is a sanctum of allthere is to lose.
What in the self could imagine a selfconveyed loss surpassing all resemblance
And I met Christ’s sisterwho revealed to meher blissby the blue fluidthat fell from her mouth