yellow-orange brims the window’s frame and when twilight, the bedroom’s awash in burnt and turning sun of

false crabapple

an extraordinary self

a migrant minus the move 

crossing within half a week’s time–

all lost of the sudden

to which there’s some last acknowledgement of what was here all the while
but hadn’t said so


There Must’ve Been Someone Without a Boat

there must’ve been someone without a boat
who hadn’t crossed my name off, who, when seeing me, wouldn’t hesitate
to ask,
would square-up my attention and hold me with words that guide as steps descend

like tunneling, like insomnia, like veinfully able
I might follow and wince, I might regard the resonant need but would I
would all of the structures of experience and belief shift or loosen or break–

is it in the idea of what’s necessary that the bright work is not done–
in this season of coming clarity, what table in what marketplace
will be turned–
yesterday, the wind worked all but a few leaves from the aspens.


O pod O sectioned one shake & shiver in the wind of sensation
gone wooden not woolen gone whorled

not toothy

but opened & opening spilled & spilling

dried fruit of no tillage

fruits the wind
with toothsome rattle

a dark-chipped death

chips at death (air-pressed earth) O pod O podsome
open & sanctioned empty of reason

unless reasoning with wind?