poems

• Wrinkle in the Gameboard

  
  When will it be warm

  for the body of my bold,

  shadowing

  
  in the old basement

  where the spiders are inclined

  to suffer such a rarefied thing?

• The Path

  The path

  of a bird

  is predetermined

  casually,

  as

  a peal

  from a sheltered

  bell

  on a hill.

  I don’t know why

  the lurching

  person

  by

  the door

  inside the southbound

  lightrail car

  nearing

  SoDo,

  hasn’t

  fallen

  completely.

  “One

  word

  from new

  and things

  would be different,”

  we

  have

  to restrain

  ourselves from

  spelling

  out.

• Because of the Wee Crystal Ball

  Rainbow droplets

  appear and fade

  on the old wall,

  in a parade

  one soon forgets.

• Recharging My Rune

  The baby spot

  in the middle

  of my old head,

  warms the riddle

  I’m playing at.

• Forked

  It’s raining rust

  on the legend

  of your nearness,

  as the dredge breath

  contains nothing.

• Irrelevance

  Irrelevance has a face

  that casts no shadow or light.

  It smiles an armory

  of never been quite.

• Rest Stop Theology

  
  After the party,

  liminal was the only

  way to show

  
  solidarity

  with the semiotician

  barking from a shoal outside of mind.

• How Many Pale

  How many pale

  letters

  does

  it

  take

  to change

  a lightbulb

  in the swoon

  of a carless

  sanctuary

  in

  a refugee

  cathedral?

  The prophet

  says

  we

  haven’t

  even begun

  to sing the myrrh

  of our promise.

  When the metaphysics

  of wing and whisper

  have been sanded

  down

  to a smooth

  ark,

  will

  we kneel

  inveterate?

• Liminal Amazing

  In the twilight

  of believing

  in anything

  and everything,

  I’m losing sight.

• The Eagle Listens

  My rescuer

  and my ruin,

  dying flower

  sighing power

  candescently.