tree bark

Far along the shore 

falls the Shadow on the stones

The shells and sand 

make The bed that rolls 

in views Across the harbor

Out among the seals

And depth 

this deep water Rig roils the sun

and Splits the beam in

murky aurora.

All this is in view of the trees

All this in sight 

and breath And perch

All this outside 

the walls 

Like a breathing texture Stand, 

elbow to elbow,

Feet to feet, 

skin to breath,

meditative in rest

this arbor feels itself

and fills

a terroir of firmness

an assertive idea 

in defensive repose

a clever clinging field

she touchs and knows

the peel and the sticky 

weakening shale, a floral throw

a chipping river froze

in upward growth

a creaking line that slows down to earth

her hand hurts in sympathy

the tree knows nothing

the bark a river of stories

folded in weather

her smell breaths

her taste leaves

she steps and smoothes

removes her shoes

and adds her toes to the soil.

She never wants to leave this place.

Hamlet'ing

Imagine an equation, whereupon one side

tends the cold and lonely, 

the ashen train of Discontent

from the beginning of time straight to her.

A wind upon them upbraids, unapologetic.

Yet the unassailable arms bend while 

bureaus prepare whole, half, and 

quarter measures, (settling on eighths)

to fit a crimson page. And round the room

the hardon load accelerates and brakes--

Confetti flakes across a field.

A basket of paper, an arm of bread

A leeward lead to history bowed

A melancholy median to ask, but in the

Questions lie a truth:

To take these pieces in or lay them bare?

And further, to draw them to the lips and drink?

The taste of each proffers a bond

which over year and miles has found

the fuse removed, but circuit’s on.

Or..to fold these strips and put them back

On shelves for books and boxes black

With teeth, and coins and silver shells

And tickets spent on evenings gone

And folded maps to places lost

And bits of mortar dry as bone.

Here’s another thought: to let

The chapters form the book.

As each to each and both to one

Play out the drama once begin.

Yes, the tale's not told as is preferred.
it's back from the foundry banked and turned

And grown like a rack of elk

(Either roasting on a campy night

Or raking bark in early eve)

Whichever meaning that you take

Each grows and smokes in rates

visible, a forceful writ to travels

like roasting smoke and rut retrievals

heady sort.

No, let the chapters make a line,

because the nearness (each to each and

Next to last works well) as pieces

Touch in midden-tells and ensconce,

and burn down, and grow up again—

there is a blend that I choose not To rend,

and choose not the face to read here.

It’s because, as the story goes, each

Is led to conceive and lead with less.

But, maybe this is untrue. Or maybe not--
one must ask which direction avails

itself to press-- I'll own to lead the road

when it's mine, and the other glows.

No, ill make no modeled

Trade, no step into the comet’s

Trailing glade—the feast of woven fibers

Can the body of another be so

Safely covered So inexorably drawn

Though a leeward spiral rending sketch—

what must one must draw upon?—I have talked myself into 

a question: Do the objects 

in The well of nova spin a different way

On the other side of the universe?

One week of plans

Let's trade--she says

                One for one,
         I collect them two

Let’s tri a fourth and divide again by

Two.

        A third I say,
                you’ll consider But not today.

        A penchant for food and

                Six glasses of wine

See you in one week.

Horace speaks

   be unimaginable, pirouette–able
lustrous westward
   and, above all, thirsty
whence the salted rim,
   that pacific firmament within,
sedent-sluice in the ranges
   like pancake in ink
and where to no bottom cadence
   debris take is place
sit now, in your learning
   and guide these reflections
of chary figures--the berries
   in their skins--loaned to babies trading 
sticky toes.

stamina

The thread of the warp is

wind winded and

Woven in woman fair folded
and Loosed in roils 

to lull the scent of lemons

to knoll the river rolls

that taste of leather.

Then the earth tremors
the bulb unlocks the frozen bed

and  marshals up a single thread
and up upon the knoll
it grows with muddy hoves and sodden sewn
while far below
the lemon river rolls
and pours into the world below.

succulenting this mole
butter mumbles lumpy
in limps, gesture fed fen
tilly
painted on
ejaculust
melt into
roll hillyfully
bent balls
giddy rigid
have these hands
the doctors hate
heads in aluminum trays
but pay the 5k anyway

eating science

tines tines

rayed open succulented

graded tongue

slurp slidden in

open oystered

encephalo-glib

the gouache terminuous

of body color

belayed and qeuleched closed

in dark.

"again" she giggles.

and again she has it
cupped under waded fix

east barrel broken least

changed, drunk

fern the feast

closed at most

loved

least lived

oldened

crack casted 

opens emptied tides

creature

counted
scienced creature

dried

clayed

glassed

preserves

doctor jellied

microtised, tasted then

given up.