480 Readings


                      two            bodies
         all that stands                 between the moon
    and sand’s shuffling                infinity

                        little stones            little speech
                                 a wave-like               shambling in my throat :

                                          the lodestars          they triangulate

                                                         fly              the flight of light-
                                                years to be           re-born as
                                            space-wrought      signposts

                                                                                     these demoted suns
                                               fury                                               into
                                                       gravity well                           buttonholes
                                            dressed in consumption           fed by hand

                                          my friend                nods :            this only ever sends us
                                     around corners
          so we palm compact                 mirrors
                                                     make           vulnerable our                                       wrists

                                   he figures it’s the density of                magnetized copper
                         its tendency to electron                that can reverse compass thorns
                     he can spin the world     to us        and its north       held red like a pin

     we walk some            there is a coast           skip navigation like a stone
                    let tortoise      and the emperor           moon
                              show us          where to print

                                                       here                       between the legs of a beach
                              pregnant with challenge                   we run fingers     of direction
                                             up the thigh                          of    wave’s crest

                                               i might have coughed :            the air is thirsty          it
                                             picks all the salt                               from the sea
                                      Mars-colors are flaring up          are eve-speaking Galilean
                                                                                                              this        the needlespun
                                                                 this      the wave ring

          my friend shivers like an arrow                     buttons with the sea
                         his notched head sinks deep           into the bottom silt
          the hilt of him splinters out        from the water’s skin             in the wound
                                                                                                                             of a signpost

                                                       what some might call                          a float

Posted 02/24/11
Format is a little funky, my pages are a bit broader, but you get the idea.
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