Falling asleep over the words…

The trees bow and lay down their cloaks of shadows / with sweeping gestures

invite you in

The bear’s eyes burn with the sombre fire | from the old animal furnace | grumpy and tired | will he | give us a ride?

At dusk, owls ignite their stares | of gold and young sun and peeled orange / the woodsman’s three children / down below / on the path | don’t notice

The snake by glide | the salmon by leap and swivel, turning the pearls on a layer of air | to flying beads of silver

Everybody is very sociable in the forest | Even the psychopaths are charming

But which ones are the psychopaths?

The landscape slips open | the text and crows, now, which is which? | The creep and screech and twitch

Head heavy as a bear’s head, as Bruin with a Bruin’s plod and slope | sleep slops and sluices | on the edge of the moonlit lake | a fairy girl gazes as she goes | on her light switch schoolwork | pinnace of beetle’s backs and frosted sails | of cobwebs caught in a short gasped shot of winter…

The catalogue of ships, calling forwards | and back | to the Greeks and teens / Trojans and Kit and exile and gulag and gloomy Achilles | and Ilium | and scrape of the Ark’s keel | on the first | tip of Armenia…

The grandfather clock never quite escaped
its native genus, and at night, from polished sides
twigs and leaves begin to scratch, while on the glass face
centipedes drip and trickle down
uncurling like loose, bronze necklaces…

And that sound? | Of distant chimes? | Half the sound of Gion temple bells | summoning to the spring air | the hearing of each | an echo of the impermanence of all things | half | my snout and muzzle | bloodied and rusted by all I’ve snaffled | for my noonday meal | but no that sound | is the end of the fight | swords and armour laid down | and the body | and the knowledge of wrong, and right, and wrong | and in between | half that is | the sound | of Achilles at midnight…


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)