Not what is, but what I wanted

so, how the proud father hums in his socket | and where the swans come in | not sure if they’re comrades or villains

Assembling a ghost, very slowly, piecemeal | over the years | the years | stacked out the back, with rolls | of discarded | imitation Turkish carpet | another time to change it | a threat of vermin

Birds, perching on a scarecrow

Not what I meant, but what is

And the bulb that pops when the lovers | reach for the light

in Tangiers, wanting to read Tyutchev or Fet

to bring the river back, and so the swans

those old



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