Poems: Messages in bottles
Elevens: Forgotten things recollected in elevens—11, 22, 33...
Sacred Trespasses: Contributions to the literary pages at Sacred Trespasses


It was I
however tore apart the past,
I however
also timeless, long ago,
and I, then, 
sought vitality and beauty
with lurid melodies at amiable near distance
in inherited timescape

Each night in my dreams,
past the indefinite border of silence, 
for a long time now I

A long time
I trod a zone of clarity,
credulous captive of a plane of trumpets,
charting patterns
in their language, a tongue of
recollected light

I tore apart the past
to find a future split and spearing
at where I thought the present

It’s not anything, the dead stillness,
they stay dead,
but patterns of lives, and however we live
no pattern stays clear,
even in the zone

I thought the present, as at a Sunday service
or a graveside speech:
It is hard work for the dream addict,

I said,
and waited,

for the luminous wave,
light which enjoys itself in skin, and in eyes, 
and in the naked black wash of a moon, 
in private annotations, in the first shy line, rays of graphite, 
wood left unpainted, long blue shadows,
long blue running shadows,
all its little seams,

and winter jonquils beaming in the hour after four o’clock
make themselves a newer passion to go on
till the memorable smell of wilting,
and on it goes, 
luminous wave, newer,
resounding, permitting itself
in contentment of entire and true pleasure