Among Plants

Plants have nowhere to go. They emit
signals and symbols, elements of energy.
They are the guilty consciousness

of thermodynamics. Their
absent-minded leaves draw skeletons
on every retina. A tree is a hieroglyph;

a man, eighty pages of astronomy.
Who wears an itinerary
to the feast of the non-calculable?

A thousand ears ago any bush
could hear, but how green was the music
on their iPods? An eye is the house

of a flower where the future snores
wholeheartedly. Petals and shutters
can fly you home.

The Cave of Forgotten Books

The soil in which light
has been planted; the snow of doves
reduced to silent syllables…

We are here, in this silken circle.
There’s no past, no future, only
wave after wave of black’n’whiteness.

Don’t marvel, my swimming heart!

Two clouds:
one iridescent (irreducible?),
the other knows points of view.

The echo, segmented
in its dying explications…

Hands and icicles.

Yonder

This brook
dancing you breathless…

Your paths are your veins;
your skull reveals your roots.

The feelings of a field; a colloquy
of farms…

A short swoon
and a long one.

Where did you go having divorced
the trouble?

Crickety

This air-coloured confusion
on both sides of nothing… Look around:
all the songs are grass-green.

One cannot leap twice
with the same (fe)male.
There’s always a two-finch gap
between a possibility
and an approach.

The bone thing:
be boneless (in a rigid way).
Don’t let your compound eyes
migrate south
or multiply in blending.

Each stove has music.
A bicycle squeak.
An Appalachian buzzer.
The voice is a gyro pilot,
it knows the way.