and joined its life-like relatives on the wall.
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
targets of surveillance, casualties of public sector cuts, persons of interest to advertisers and politicians.
A found videopoem.
a painting of a heron