Le silence éternel de ces espaces infinis m’effraie - Blaise Pascal

                               velocity at the valves 
 of body 
                             a sieve           sound uncrowded
like a moon probe

obey the audition
tune with new ear
              vane of roof
–	the physical v.    
the signal

                 they speak of the horn in the hunt
  a soundmark
      sure, the wolfbeat again

original sonic event
aural presence
slipping the source

                     leads to the pinwheel—
       it starts with the sky
  moves inward
the fore impulse

come, stage right:
                      or  jester 
       tempus stows breves
creeps at the strand

swarms the object
      absorbing passes 
              & with her paddle and aulos
alterity glides the intervals 
     in her willow coracle
disheveled like all ancient things

                                             a shepherdess
          at the swamplands    ear to the sheepbells
  gaging the state of her flock

yes,             she hears music at the valves
     trilling the skerry

welling the ear
     broom doling thew

out like felt dashes       quick to
              swathe rough vibrissae

          & in     thatching the roundhouse

“Kinematic” - La Vague, #6: Cinepoem. February 2016



I. Needle	
                       see the phantom again
the whole body flexion         alongside
          firm zero          

she suspected this 		
Pan with his stolen goats
                  his row of chestnut trees 

                      fight grown fat 
sleeps its weapon down
                        in the distance 

remote background  
                 needle repair
      validities knit        & so on 

         pin the particular
donkey       a tail	
                            a hand   

        sews in the child 
spines the arched back 
          with zipper

lighter           she returns to shelter
         knuckles the earth 
& I & silence         still foreign 

II. Nectar
               few  return to salt the sea        emptying their buckets

                  the buoy in its wind-thrashed chair
       liege to December

                               leaves fettled to the lake
                      ruddling water

the gibbous loves 
              seeking half disc

     roofs curring to the old block
               shingle family resemblance
                    far         one finds    nectar at the trough 

III. Wagon

                               what river rose 

                    felled of region like a thin dart

      honeyed crimes at the crossings

half swimmer       half hawk      
               resisting tessellation 

                                          her body scarcely plumbed 

               six layers of old marrow         

     arching the margin

                   between  her           & the passenger 

“Frontier” - Tzak: a journal of translational poetics, Issue 2. August 2015



 	  … nadie sabe dónde se ha perdido
	      ni a qué silencio entró.
	        (Nobody knows the place where he is lost 
	          nor what silence he has entered) – Octavio Paz

    blade with me in low
              grasses, stay quiet       the pirate 
    birds and cocoritos deep building rough nests 
         pinwheel the trees 

 let us lay to ground   or
       island for weeks
 		to roost on dry cliffs

gliding colibríes, gavilanes, warm updrafts driving patterns
of sea and selvage as they whet the till 
          pacific boundaries blurred           
                                                   their edgelands 

dentations      cleaving
       trench of the body 
                    something carried in   

  follow me to the rough house, sleep near quiet water,  trail our
carrion at the sound          swimming 
                iguanas         headed to islands will walk 
          across land 
   clutches of thirty     
share nests along mangroves and rivers
	even the crocodiles   emerge at night, stalking the swamp

o the waterthrush sing          		few at a time
 						over canopies of Malagueto, Jobo, Cecropia
        			their mahogany song    a sea-going ship 
       marked: all the warblers have shored here
           in highlands               in breeding 
        dress      they soon depart

  & the suicide tree        after a hundred years 
                         finally matures
            then in april, clusters                    brown flowers 
                   waits for the dry season       sheds leaves          
    to the wind   
        produces          dies

much like the wanderer 
        in snow      whose every small egress     
           first spades                           then flights the hollow 

“Migrations” – Molly Bloom: New Poetry in a Modernist Tradition, Issue 10. May 2016