Lighter than the darkness of a light sleep | whose years are these now?

I dreamed I was young and the world not yet quite | finished | Your face was rose and rash, you had caught the sun | I didn’t know what a kiss was | After we had | turned the old devil out of doors | the hooves of green sequins, farts | of purple smoke and a wrinkled grin | flashing a glamour still | we wouldn’t let him back in | not until he swore | to appear as a youth again | as he really was | On the train south, remembering the trip through the meadows | Pull the blade of | yellow grass | once more | between my lips | mouth to mouth | swallow a darkness | full of those hours | not needed by sleepers | and steal all the doors | leading into the house | Five days without mirrors | knowing these things | to their end / sealing the boxes / hammering down the lids | Looking ahead | to the lion’s | share of life | Pitching camp | at the edge of a dream | not wishing to leave, rushing, like spring for a summer | a silver spree of salmon | home | for the first time, towards | a stranger I’ve somehow | already met…

<April Fool | In the spaces between our thoughts | what journeys do we take, what | suitcases lose, what | played tricks forget?>


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, June 2013)