2015 | 14 | Turning in Time

Screen Shot 2015-11-02 at 7.34.07 PM

The trough, this feed
a monoculture of horror
In the season of thin veils
and spirit visitation.s.

Who knocks when the
house is empty?
An empty search
bar blinking
cursory kind of
knock.
Because there will
be no answer
among all the replies:

Kalimantan is burning,
Almost by definition,
Rocks for throwing
in Kathmandu’s streets,
Sickening selfies
twisted nation hate
blood leaking from the
body of a Palestinian boy.
Peopled desks
slammed
with the people
still in them.

Pepper
in The North
selling for $18.99
pre-ground.

Beyond recognition.

Just luxurious
dust
blown hot and
bent around
smoke rings
stretched
over-scorched
earth.

Still, flint fast
glimpses of a
language.s.till
never
more than an inch
from the fingertips
of its
author:
the land.

I’m looking
for the last of
the medicine.

To just
justly be quiet
and still
fear
the turning inward
confusion of
twenty-one degrees
and Mercury moving
it’s now Scorpion spiral.

November
as it turns out
turns too
warm before
finally blushing
the gentle
reminder
that solitude
might be
loneliness
over time.

Until such time
I’d rather not
harvest
the feed on offer.
It does nothing
to nourish.
Let it lie.

(The cat vomits
its food
in a sad act
of protest.
I have cleaned it
while she sleeps.)

As
in––and over––
there, across that
static bridge
of stolen memories
banked for
a two year’s
ago from
now reminder
of what! fun!
we must have had
forever
and ever.

Stinging
pixel
sorely
dilutes the
gas leak
gradient
of my
gaze
now turned
toward the

Cool sky set off
from
warm tempered
glass grasping
the last sun
at four thirty
in the afternoon.

I seem to have
left that part of
behind
in the picture
that became a hug
that became a gratitude
that became a reminder
of the gift
of witness
and the struggle
for reciprocity.

One of those
precious parcels
better left
there.
Amid the dust in a
Cluttered but not
unclean
corner
Just a placeholder.

If I ask our Sainte
she sings again
while Seeger
leans on watching
like a lip balanced
mouth bow:
Little wheel,
spin and spin,
Big wheel,
turn
Around and a–
round.

I warble back
at the same
video of a film: a
little wheel
turning in time
a swirl
of soon to be
sleeping
oak.

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