Once again, I slept for a thousand years. The courage of the wheel.
Sleep offered me salvation, sleep offered me science.
The lock came off.
Spoke 1: will to action,
Spoke 2: exotic palaces of dead swans.
Spoke 3: I walked with my legs in water.
Spoke 4: My sister married a musician. I listened to his words very closely.
Spoke 5: My sweater unraveled, beneath a clear sky.
Spoke 6: Two hands touched, in passing. He stuck his head out the window.
And, once again,
a good teacher!
Spoke 7: I wept at the beauty of the song.
Spoke 8: You are welcome...
the swathe, happening / my words.
“Bleeding hard”…they said. “There is nothing.”
Once again, I revived to clarity.
I awoke to the
with both my hands.
I used my hands.
One obscure year, one year of hand games.
Year of galvanizing
Year of generation, year of stones
Year of blossoms, year of lakes
Year of treason, year of opulence
Year of mandarins
Year of dreaming, year of bodies
Year of chapels, year of seas
Year of nation
Year of consciousness
in its conventional form, my skin thick with it…
My tapestries were numerous,
I rolled them out across the horse’s dark torso…
…and then I kissed that horse square on and sloppy.
It was a sleeping
encounter, him speaking: “get the lilies
find the city in the morning
love and in each
hand, orchards, and they’re flowering!”
City of silences, city of likeness,
city of one needle, it skirts
the eye of change.
I slept in the city, I parked beside its iron skyscrapers.
I slept. The sky
and crescent for
breakfast. I stood up,
“This is an imagined city.”
I clamped skin to my skull with steel bands.
The man in the cave is a man. Please don’t hurt him.
a sequence of parabolic gaps,
here is the fist of violets…
I was young, and the salve had grown on me. I was young, and the city had opened its haunches for me with a heave, a release of Calvinistic energy. I was young, and the sparrows had cried out—refrains, and their feathers brushed my ears. I was young, and millions of birds hovered over the branches of conifers, sharpening their beaks on timbers. I did not look at the hole in the despot, I covered the flash with a mirror. I covered it with my studio, I covered it with singing, I covered it with jelly—calm, multi-facet—I covered it with whatever was in jars, blooming out.
I showed up on the esplanade,
I slept in a noisy birdbath with my teeth hanging from the roof of my mouth,
with a pair of machines, my given: sight.
A community of supplicants in the boarding zone:
“Will you help us? With our hours?”
“Will you help us with our fears?”
“I didn’t align myself with the bolts.”
“Why didn’t you just say so?”
I asked for mercy, a boat set out on melic,
I deliberated my choices as a pigeon stalking a piece of crust snaps in on the thing.
city—there aren’t that many…
A hinge on a door opened the bright shell. Who found me? I dreamed of a mother with an oven like a cavern, fossilized scurf. Its interior was cool, with stars placating the clean lines. I pitched a tent there—inability, scaffolding. I ladled my hands….
A hinge on a broken door let in a slant of light. Corpuscles of grey blooming out the pocks—what a pretension! I sipped my mint julep to the bars of a remembered cell: “I only finger pick,” “someone at the party will need a plastic one” “someone will canopy our mouths”
Evening, a lanyard, and I can only imagine what it must sound like…
then spring’s unwounded footfall…
 “The musical bar is (not) governed by syllabic duration.” / voice(ness) /
 “Wild, lovely night moon.”
 I listened for other people’s trains, flows of uninterrupted escapes…
 O brave heart!
 Reservoirs of grain—do you remember?
 Is this quicker and closer than thoughts?