
I am as tall as a blade of grass
and close to perfect for noise making
With tenderness standing at the edge of my tongue
Who goes there?
Pale turrets lined with yellow ladders jut out from the tops of trees blurred by my own flight
No! Not marred!
How could it be that I am sliding down into the same hidden pocket of orange clay lining the
river from my childhood while I’m tearing out fistfuls to slap onto a large flat rock?
I sail off in a wicker beetle shell and
for four days I live in a valley.

Winter in our underwater grave:
Let us make a bridge of specialness
Out of the shrill things we find
For blasphemy
like a treasure map marked
by a greasy crayon
Those are really our strides in the snow
but lacking concern for marks-the-spot
Spots bloom all over in the likeness of angels
Calling upon spectators to
offer up their own glass showcase
of fragmented shadow
As the old Queen raising her hand
to the birdcatcher
Whispers
No, that is not the song I seek.

Now little orange creeks two inches wide carve out against the real river and disappear into the wonder of opaque murk only to appear again behind three red curtains that tower above and reach into an infinite sky opened up by a snarling sighing jeering beauty flat against my memory.

While phantom rain pelts our heads
Oh, ecstasy
Behind phantom gates
Oh, truth
Watch the globe shatter
And be still
And stand