25 December 2010

Varnished giclée prints drop her
onto an old farmstead’s surround
with pronounced trees
and roots. She is relieved

not to be
the only one who needs a public
place to be open today—one
besides a church,

or cineplex. She’s more interested
in tiny rebirths
than one monumental birth—those moments
that can unpack themselves
onto any given day’s matte canvas.

What Was That You Said about Capricorns?

No longer his day, it will
come around again—
through slowly stretching

hours of light into shrinking
nights till contraction and expansion
trade places, then trade

again. Just after that final click
to go in reverse, his day
will return. And I hope to be

around to touch it—those untouchable
vibrations and holds.


This color collision—red
splayed onto green—isn’t
on purpose. She would not presume
to celebrate what cannot be

celebrated by someone
whose beliefs lie
inside another palette,
reveal themselves without complementary

aids. It happens—pigments
go where they must, or
where they might. It is that
she chooses this pariah

life—this bundle of exploded light
debris—which spells out memories
left unretrieved. It is this

to be true.

Day 1,819 (The Keys)

They come in all sizes
to unlock doors, lock them
up again. They open
mail boxes, barricade cabinets and diaries
from curious eyes. Chiming
in my loose pocket, they turn
security into a musical instrument
before doubling back as a weapon
on dark, empty streets. They anchor
me to the city. A weight inside,
they keep me

from floating off
the ring around lost
before found.