Calumny 2005

“What is lacking cannot be numbered.”


Make of the fog a horn,
of the dermis an umiak,
of the sparrow-feet
(Arms,
spoons,
grapes,
gabion legs.)
a wall-eyed cat.

A ball of sea glass
penetrates the grass.

This meal feels like a marathon, sister.

(Timbers of our trestle,
a handful of indifferent filings,
your peasants asleep
in the dampening culvert.)

Dragoman
hold my hand.