distant, keeps odd hours. A foreigner, regarded with a mixture of bemused tolerance and mistrust.
Category: artifacts
old jawbones
lying at right angles
my camera is a phone
In a dream, I ask advice on raising children
and am told to bury them in the yard so they’ll ripen.
I place myself
on the Underground map uneasily, wondering how such ideal points and lines can add up to anything resembling the surface.
Bronze Age
Migratory as an eel, unstable as molten metal wavering between stone and water, I dreamed myself adrift in a forest of the dead, one more leaf returned to the forge of life, green blade that does not crumble, however fallen, in any autumn that we know.
bronze Gandhi
patina sending tendrils
toward the earth
Do the inhabitants of the past ever tire
of our clueless questions and our rapacious gaze?
What is it that we are missing
between footfalls, in a caught breath? What tic or tick of rhetoric makes the ground so unsolid wherever we are told we must mind the gap?
Remember to always practice safe death.
Unlettered in death,
we are immune to even the most appalling cliches.
