(1)
in the fold again mineral mouths
coming together but not actually able to flex or
extend the form, a lineament
produced by some unlimited vastness/
were we to dwell in
desire stationed as it were on the
cusp/a contour/always conditioned
to stasis a slow sort of resurrection
to conjure/an offering/the altar
affixed
these
patterns are analog
hide or fiber a skin can be any surface that
grieves the mind or waterways
what /it’s simply static/
years haven’t passed but I piled up
the body deprived of
exhalation the thoracic cavity
spasms when every
flight brings another
reason for conception, like
trying to hold the same thought too long/the
vacant space in the
center radiates proximal
structures are only generally stable
some of the time the image
is appended and only slightly more
devotional
to throw the bones into
the circle a goat skin or
grass mat is common
(2)
the cornflower mashed
a descendent of the fern/that blue representing
a joy that lingers that water
is starting to move about in ways
we hadn’t planned/pattered
the mind for more than
this the river from afar, a
spine floats freely inside its
column
the crops in these parts form a
circle as
in my hand, three stones
you claimed the
creek/ a waterway
is evolution, trace
its days are deposits
skinned of fertility the
creepers are out and
seemingly landless the barn
slants the ash back into my lap the
oak trees are every-
where the honeysuckle
grown out, sun-steamed &
restless
the tang the
collection of
natives
(3)
but then it catches like something
feverish elevations are
sometimes imperceptible
for weeks, I flushed
the memory
was something ground in
light is so utterly unconditional
mornings were labor
I wanted the dirt to
get into me the season/the
shifting skeins had
wilded out a habitat the floorboards, the
miles the house couldn’t the
dripping water isn’t
always outside
the window, the nettles the
tunnels are paths only
private that way
no argument there are so many
ways I still have to hate
but the geese are
back & the creekbed is
gorged, everybody has
to have some-
thing to eat the daylight
the matted grass the
basic premise
(4)
where the track enters the woods
the moon is up &
almost winging, the thinker
is clothed in a body
its true I won’t rise again from fear
but motives are denser matter
that hawk thawed for me
the clouded tree a temporary rush
it is sometimes so easy to be free of you
but acoustics have many
likenesses the speckled owl
the woodpecker the
door at night a voice
at different points appears
bowed action isn’t
always exactly traced for instance
snow mottled with urine, a body
with growth rings, no water leaks but a puncture
where the outside is significantly
damp by scraping the edge/
by re-falling/refining
spores are scattered the voice, too,
forms habits what I once
was and no weather/no wind
inhalation is
sometimes negligent or
scarcity, craw crop gullet
or jaws
everything has
a tag
(5)
or to think the dead birds an omen
the creek mudded, slowing the sun
a cliff rises & there is a gap in the way we speak
indicative of water cycles
aquifers are not just elements of access but
to kneel shivering, pre-dawn to
belong to a cusp or to
rise and kindle, to
split light by poking
it between the legs
to bark and to sap, to
a fresh accession of just-
barely-moving morning, moored
to a roadside, hair wild with
conductivity/hand sprawled in
offering & out-
sliding over wet ground/willing
the chaser both behind and
above to abeyance & to
able it open to alternating
coarser to finely-
grained matter a deep, deep dank in the
field not found in its figure but unfolded
& bearing in mind its
condition
(6)
to dream
admired denotes
you
tied as I
am
why form
limited
to fall/ fingers
are imagined
does not tighten
when pressure is applied but
mind split by
practice/the less
movement
the better/
the bearer has dressed himself a ligature
a strung
muscle
accessible but
bound to spatter
pattern
brought the appetite into focus
regulation,
abstinence,
the inward flow of the senses
gathered
to imagine the act
a thick mist/ morning: scrub oaks, blackberry bushes, even the grass here is/ starts to gush
squat in the bracken, tameless and feathered
the crust of consciousness: to want to
attached
and then to let
it go