The sun is different here—

distant, keeps odd hours. A foreigner, regarded with a mixture of bemused tolerance and mistrust.

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

I dreamed myself adrift in a forest of the dead.

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.

state forest

haiku: state forest / a maze of snail trails / on the road sign

fallen hornets’ nest

I take a break from organizing my files