h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s





My anarchist talks while i’m driving
(i’m tired but she is thriving--)
beside pylons in flood plains, near
marshes, culverts & storm drains, in
amethyst mornings & clear, past exiled
gulls, veils of oil, sooty dancers
& streams that are sometimes enough.
We must do something but what,
she asks. Pheasants fly into ditches;
fields bubble & broaden. The unknown
Future waits wrapped in itself like
a larvae, almost alive & awake--


A pretty anarchist said to me 
It’s not that a great love happens
What happened became your great love

Her echo had an ancient glow & so
proved buoyant for my little craft

I left the world & felt a world

The bee loading its gloves with powder
The albatross wanting one thing from the sea

Nothing can wreck our boat said she

& when the water felt the glacier
The future held a present tense
The present held a future without cease

............... june moon june moon

Light said   If the tablets
are written with silence
what good is a prophecy

Light said Let’s be
like the mirror we found
in the leaf why don’t we

or, that’s what
summer said it said

when we made time
past twenty azure frogs
in the pond — or, when
we held time’s arrows

Have you lost your
way with technique?

(Try pitching between
other styles
why don’t you.)

Night is young but doesn’t
lack experience; your hope
flies over the field:
little voice, little fact,

bracelet of signs
for the unknown—



Copyright © 2009 Literary Pool, Inc.