Bones of how it’s made | on Pearblossom Highway | the feel of cracks | all the way through | us | Landslide of no one | lightning above the meadow | sky the colour of absent dreams | of a black | grape’s innards | incipient | bruise grey | tint of violet | Love, bring us | together again | It all looks like it’s | drowned, underwater | Remember | forget | what it was | how it made | its vast signal | bee-spot and foxglove bell | the particular | crooks of our fingers | Holding down the swollen | head of spring | battling | once more | these basic things | Looking from above | eating the storm | for lunch | truck-stop | train | jumper | we are thieves | running | not sure | just what it is | we’ve stolen
A huge spell | cast over us | size of a life | scale of a city | The desert | can’t cure or | cleanse us | add another | brick to the structure | go or stay | I am the carpenter | today | you, the electrician | Rig up | the storm | climb the step | ladder | above the sign | Legerdemain | infused | the cactus and the shell cases | with a perfume | and dry-throated coda | of Orpheus | later | after the slaughterhouse | a few last | wisps of | lullaby | In February | push open the | swift | snow doors | toss my bones | in a bag | carry me hard | to the flame | then scatter the flames | in the library | Turn | your head | a little my way | we bossed | the crowded streets | YOUR NAME | HERE | I’ll show you | the delicate | skeleton | of the rain’s | baby | You’ll show me | the flesh of how | we found | we’re lost
from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, December 2015)
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