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.[1]




































Spoke 1: will to action,





Spoke 2: exotic palaces of dead swans.[2]















































Spoke 3: I walked with my legs in water. Nebraska. An uptown cuckoo. Lava dying in the grass downtown.





Spoke 4: My sister married a musician. I listened to his words very closely.





Spoke 5: My sweater unraveled, beneath a clear sky.










On: harmony.[3]























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...































Spoke 9










the swathe, happening / my words.


















“Bleeding hard”…they said. “There is nothing.”


















Spoke 10





Once again, I revived to clarity.


I awoke to the






new dance,

a seeker—

with both my hands.





I used my hands.




























Spoke 11








One obscure year, one year of hand games.[5]






































Spoke 12



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…
















Spoke 13



…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

with its

love and in each


                                    hand, orchards, and they’re flowering!”


“Which city?”
























Spoke 14



City of silences, city of likeness,


city of one needle, it skirts






the eye of change.[6]



































Spoke 15



I slept in the city, I parked beside its iron skyscrapers.





I slept. The sky

honey tangerine

and crescent for

breakfast. I stood up,

I slept.





“This is an imagined city.”
















I slept.















Spoke 16
















I clamped skin to my skull with steel bands.










The man in the cave is a man. Please don’t hurt him.






































































Spoke 17



Look. Though






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.[7]
















Spoke 18







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.
















of the










city—there aren’t that many…





Spoke 19



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…










And then spring’s unwounded footfall…

[1] “The musical bar is (not) governed by syllabic duration.” / voice(ness) /

[2] “Wild, lovely night moon.”

[3] I listened for other people’s trains, flows of uninterrupted escapes…

[4] O brave heart!

[5] Reservoirs of grain—do you remember?

[6] Is this quicker and closer than thoughts?

[7] “The pale dream of an English meadow.” / There was a clash of special books.