JUNE 21. SUMMER SOLSTICE. 9:36am. 70 and sunny. A weathered deck threaded with seed ants. The kind of ants for whom walls are not. And the red towel I have unrolled. And a small green cricket ascending the upturned lamb’s ear. I wonder if one could stitch a smock of the stuff. Negligee perhaps. When the air is Goldilocked. Just right. By lamb’s ear I refer to the botanical not the mammalian. I defer to a lover’s needle & unspool. The angle of light articulates texture—a velvet silver pressed w/branching rivulets. They are not unlike the tongues of an infant thing. To wear a licking. To stitch the blades into a kind of garment & don. One would appear to be feathered. A breezeway. The day a down pillow, still afternoon, then laced w/ exhaust. I could not see what passed from behind the lilac (spent) nor the hydrangea (in knots) & so he kept appearing just before I closed my eyes. 


SEPTEMBER 23. SCHOOL BUS. DAY TRIP. 2pm. At the bus stop kids w/sticks drew their names in the sand; sand, a slow sidewinder, sifts down the aisle. I take it back. A booming boy asks what it is, in my hand. A dry bag. “A magic dry bag?” Yes. “What’s in it?” Nothing. “A magic dry bag of nothing?” Yet. We bounce along the two-track to the drop off. Past the DEAD END into the canopy, lowering, narrowing. Some have fears of bears but we are numerous. Now branches flatten their palms against the glass. Children in Morocco running beside the train & the boys in Haiti when Nixon drove us to market & I pulled out my wallet & the not yet men closed round & how quickly Nixon rushed to pull me from his fear. Please, can't we stay? The fallen tree is mossed.  Some people like group singing & some don’t. Opens onto a field where a house has sucked itself hollow, rafters, a rib cage. You say goodbye, & I say hello, sings the loud boy loud. A bus is perforated steel. Is a steel trap. A hot mic. We all make it back. 


May 1, noon

Dear X,

I've been trying to get through for days but the potholes / My basket strap / is torn near through / if I find nothing to repair it soon / I’ll be forced to carry the apartment on my back / Repairing is what I saw turtles / yesterday do--bronze hinge in a ditch / Do you think of turtles as binary? Nor I / Just one sexless softness / braced for impact / Shells are so much more practical than a basket / no pores for to weave a ribbon for rain to spoil / Too far remains the only distance I know / Mailboxes are fastened / to keep them from bolting to where inside them wants to go / Would speak if their mouths weren’t already full /of closing  write soon  write soon / Last week two on a tandem through a puddle soaked me through / Now unless I’m on top / of them I cannot read the signs//

Yours traversing ever so slowly blind,



November 27, 10:10pm   A wall of doors. Polished concrete. Light pinking a surface that will not give. Hinge upon. To hinge upon. The pin. The needle threaded. A blue multitude. A pool of spun wool. Of spun silk. A pool of spinning. Dizzy as a what was that? Fire in a wrought iron palm. A palm reader. The word dentistry removed from pain. Spare pleasure. Tracing paper. Soft lead. Blades. With a stone for wind. With a window for climbing. With a view to the mirror behind which what kind of meat. Shower heads. A hair tie.  From a ring a chain suspends a threshold. Wrecked tangle. Arched spine. A body blurs.


October 6. 12:34am.  Sometimes I forget there was a door here. Night in the window, a black door opening to the tune of a waning silver knob. Move along. Move along. Nothing to see here. Nothing fully dilated in want of oversized shades. Day, a turbulence of brown froth, say, a river a peak thaw, the silt slip & grit, then clear. Quick fish. Now perched directly above tomorrow. Now can no longer recall her beloved’s hands. As alcohol swabbed, body from body, how clean. Travel by sleep. A thousand miles she drew me, goes on w/the story. The way we lost was imaginary.