In an absolute visual
	              energy pool
	     natural chaos

                     we make these things:

                                       sage brushes
                   			soil drumlins
       	           	                             first maps
		                     graves that rivered  


	                           The crude kind of backwater 
                                                  animals traverse	  

	     trawl and plashing in 
                          depth marks

beside lake palms 
& fields
some with their fishing rods
				hawsers streeling 
				  The denuded covert clearing loess
					   scree 	     charcoal 

			a modello for canvas
				            grafting wind 
	sanguine flags
      	               tones           from broken tors
 	       a gesture   of the carry of clouds   the skub-lided bestiary 

                                                                     below the clints 

	& places of shipwreck dashed by roseate
	       stentors      histories tinned 

			the marram bowing shivered lea

               glyphic sediment
               hand-drawn topography lines
                             the fin of roots
               canvas, wingspan, fell

“Croquis” - Reliquiae: A Journal of Contemporary and Historical Responses to Landscape & Nature, Volume Four (Print) . Corbel Stone Press – Cumbria, England. November 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