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.

I dreamed myself adrift in a forest of the dead.

patina sending tendrils
toward the earth

of our clueless questions and our rapacious gaze?

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
heirloom tomatoes

targets of surveillance, casualties of public sector cuts, persons of interest to advertisers and politicians.

A found videopoem.

a painting of a heron