she said she dreamt
of thugs and dogs
that chased me.
in mine i slept inside
a vast human hive
shaped like a pyramid.
i'd rather be chased by
brooms and mops.
the cold could not be explained,
by dead songs or distant sirens
waiting for the mercy or the joke,
the sound of the universe
when nobody's home,
the documents and scraps
of paper smeared
with policies and poems.
the sentimental glow that clings
to the stones of dead empires
and faded snapshots.
-
it’s easier to float a needle
in a glass of water.
but i kept looking.
in the storm-bared roots
of stolen streams,
the trees that lived through
cortez and the pharaohs,
stalingrad and woodstock.
a crumbled fort
returning to sand,
might be shelter for a picnic,
a place to frolic
in the spaces that
escaped attention.
i found an antler in the gravel.
he'd shed it in the willows
besidea shrunken pool
with black tadpoles
wriggling at the edges
and two snakes trying
to eat the same fish.
one had the head,
the other the tail.
neither willing to let go,
and for a moment
it seemed to explain,
everything.
