Excerpt from “Cold Book, Hot Book”

Sky shine on the wire.
My fingers outweigh my head.
The sun is a vestige in reverse.
The ancient Chinese welcomed the fantastical into their everyday lives. 
With a root wood fly whisk.

Flax in my hand is counter to cognition, as rest before color. 

* * *

Vagrant in this squint. I am hatless.
An old water course never loses its way.
He was seven years old when he started work on the ranch.
He fed the cows and horses. His calluses grew up with him.

Inner is outer overnight.

* * *

The ditch is crying.
Tawny dogs chased a old lion up a tree
The dead ewe and the dead lamb and the dead dog
are untangled by confusion.
Re-engineering the eyes in obsessive.
What of the spring, the promise of the park procession
through the colonnade.
The trapper shot the lion. 
The full cemetery under dirt, the full hearts, plastic flowers.
The seed of sleep in the baby’s eye, lettuce underground.

There is strength in denial, a sort of comfort, I guess.