dead broomsedge hissing
in the ridgetop wind
Category: built environment
The sun is different here—
distant, keeps odd hours. A foreigner, regarded with a mixture of bemused tolerance and mistrust.
another year gone
the traditional sauerkraut
salty as tears
college town
even the old motel
is younger than me
In a dream, I ask advice on raising children
and am told to bury them in the yard so they’ll ripen.
I dreamed a giant silk moth fluttered into a museum
and joined its life-like relatives on the wall.
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
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?
