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.
patina sending tendrils
toward the earth
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?
the half-dozen hues
of dead needles
all eyes are on the bright
targets of surveillance, casualties of public sector cuts, persons of interest to advertisers and politicians.
a painting of a heron
you become even more attuned to the music of speech and the dark magic of writing.
we are immune to even the most appalling cliches.