[Arrival]
The doorway yawns to make a passage for the lad,
a gate op’ning out upon the chairs and stove whereat
Zjemlya kisses Ouranos and mythicals the sofas,
the chrism’s song-fragrance mingling with th’ aromas
that curl ’round the door-posts, and anchor them; for brokenness
shall sleep offstage,
and build its cage
later. Continue reading
Windowsills droop,
walls, tired, sigh;
I know this sky,
here it bends nigh,
my feet and thighs
have roots
here.
A maelstrom of toxins marches
inward from the periphery:
you are vigilant with science
and slash with superstition
at their watery bellies. Continue reading
(From almost five years ago.)
.
I do not oft look up at the sky anymore,
my eyes are stuck, set for a shallow depth-of-field;
The weeds have been snapped at the roots, yet their leaves
and long stems are still green; untwining them relieves
the choked plants, but the refuse discarded still beams
with the life that has already ended.
Into the Clarities 