from dream logic

012   :   “For violence it laid itself open to defeat by the Western barbarians.”

Must be said again, everything. Keep your radios on. For further announcements.

019   :   “an unlimited sense of the field”

Where there is dissonance, resonance. Where

there is nakedness. Where there is agency. Marco Polo,

his hands worn. The silk road. Where

there is blessing, a kindred act. A capacity

for seeing. Where             one might count

pilgrims, a number            both empty

and endless. The path             not taken,

offered. Where one might field            a purpose

of safety, the gulls. Borders             , flounder

, within. I am             too honest, perhaps. A cruelty

of lines, drawn. Where             there is context,

heavy, on the limbs. Where

there is nothing             but flame.

020   :   “about the author”

Sunday’s child is full of grace. He was born, they say. As they say. Ripped, from the roots. Whether an object or an idea or a solar eclipse. In the morning, how he was born, he was born. At the dawn of the 1970s, a veil of red through a thousand unwritten lyrics. On the Ides of March, a quarter after the hour, eight. Sunday’s child, is bonny and blithe. It took time, how we sped from place to place. How we stand in full view of history, the marshland. Hintonburg, as once a village. He was born on land, they say, full view of the waves. Full view of this hospital room, full view of Wellington Street. A dawn, encased in amber, somber hands. Something about a story, short and long. To our mythologizing. Pre-cambrian dust, to be free of one’s work. A sandbar, in history’s low tide. This is not a full biography, mine. The flesh of an hour, and how swift one flies. The sound of a step, or a final stop.

021   :   “Smaller Mercies”

On this plain

Occupied, these chances

Familiar as lines

In the way

Just a short

Step, past is

Present, and always

Are the first

To break gaze

One eye fixed

How we speed

As corrupt, clear

You can trace

Heart, your hand

As swift as

A muscle

022   :   “A Wall of Solid Air”

At night the children would paint the surface with crayons, acrylic. They had already lost more birds than the skies could afford.