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
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?
Christmas in July
the half-dozen hues
of dead needles
all eyes are on the bright
Threat levels us:
targets of surveillance, casualties of public sector cuts, persons of interest to advertisers and politicians.
A found videopoem.
where that heron used to stand
a painting of a heron