and joined its life-like relatives on the wall.
I dreamed I’d written a book about all my disguises.
When I woke up, it was true.
The rain comes hammering on the plush roof of the earth.
on the plush roof of the earth. After a while, it opens one by one its mush rooms.
Four months away
even the full moon isn’t
where I left it
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
I dreamed myself adrift in a forest of the dead.
bronze Gandhi
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
cloudy Sabbath
all eyes are on the bright
heirloom tomatoes
Threat levels us:
targets of surveillance, casualties of public sector cuts, persons of interest to advertisers and politicians.
