The carousel of the station unfurls journeys | It is also a box of fireworks | releasing thousands of rockets per day

Everyone here is secretly hunting | but they don’t know they are hunters | Consequently, they migrate within themselves without being aware | that their quest is driving them from shore to sea, from the sea to new land | Some wake with elk in snow, some with airport lights in a humid climate | They think they know why | Living is no error | but it has no right

In varnished offices, decorated with Persian rugs and intriguing artifacts | psychoanalysts are drilling deep wells in search of the perfect waters of dreams | Often, their patients use stations

Covered by the things of sight, the other things | congregate and float like droplets of phosphorus in the ocean | or in mute herds | roam and, when rain approaches | grow still and patient and wait

The method of connection and the spirit of connection are separate and related | The spirit will guide the method | the method give succour to the spirit | How you connect, why you connect, what you choose to connect | these will shape you | But who will hold the map of all you connect? | This will be one night sky among many constellations | and in the morning | it will be different

At the centre of the desert of her days | an oasis has formed | Under tall date palms | there are peach trees | monkeys and hummingbirds | It is an eye | that opens and gazes up at the moon, at the sun | She wanders the desert and only occasionally stumbles on the oasis | refreshes herself then wanders again | losing her way | and the winds reshape the sands of her days | into dissimilar formations | tending to loss | eroding the paths and, with the paths, memory | The water is incredibly pure | Her oasis | so little visited | is a place for parables and prayer | or to lie very quietly in the shade and to dream

The world is one head | a mighty skull that can face in a single direction only | A honeycomb of tunnels, made by thoughts, connects people | but no one has a map of all the tunnels | and no one can see out of the world’s eyes | summon its giant gaze | or guess why it so solemnly and persistently | faces what it faces | rather than another landscape

Across another landscape | a lonely magician trudges | inventing new names for the seas of the moon | while bouncing at his hip | hung from his belt in a clay flask | his genie bitches and whines | craving a drink | distilled from the nectar of rare Egyptian roses | and unable to settle | missing, as he does, a certain oasis | in a young woman’s dreams | where the waters are calm and pure | and, years ago, he fell sleep | for the first time in centuries | and in the morning | woke and was the same and no one


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, July 2015)