V.49

We are not built to think of space
of true beginnings and endings
when the book becomes less and more
when cups and paths and horses fall

off the registry of items –
yet we do and it brings a break
in thought to the page. The blue roar
of water as I’m arriving

at work, draws back concepts like a
curtain / The sun on the water
is scintillating like a proud
child. Light blue eyes encapsulate

me and the red waters rise. Rain
on the air after a storm, rain’s
ghost captures small insects on its
silk. Far off a head of thunder

attempts to drag itself out of
the blue. As I’m leaving work, I
become tangled in the silver
linings. The car is hot, I put

Takk by Sigur Rós into the
CD slot and feel antiquate.
The end of things is far from me
and the cool breeze. The sun blinking

V.48

It is remarkably easy
crossing rivers, over the grass
that is submersed. I walk across
the bridge and turn, see my vampire

friends shivering and swearing there
typing fragments of disgust at
this thing which flows on and never
likes or retweets anything. wow

I say, just wow. Come on over.
They can’t. Their undead hearts pump blood
borrowed from moment to moment
from various devices. Who

am I kidding? My thoughts are run
through with desire paths. My
thumbs are tired and I can’t think.
I try press the river into

service as a question, a graph
an interesting friend, a text.
But the water keeps on going
and eventually cracks out

of my phone screen, as I walk on,
fizzing like a burst pipe, I sigh
and my clothes are drenched. Their toothy
grins follow me, as I trudge on

V.39

I thought I was done writing love
poems. Then I had a moment.
Now the only poem that’s worth
thinking about consists of your

name, repeated as many times
as the structure will allow it.
The river is getting drier
and revealing my face, my hands

supplicant, on the cracking shore
encased in mud and algal growth
A face of pain, or quietness
and ducks scamper about on it,

Clouds of gnats making me avert
my gaze. Can I redo this verse?
It was meant to be a love poem
I’ve lost track of what’s going on

When the new becomes coeval
with the dreamlike, we know true life
in our world has reached a strange point.
I assume the sun once felt like

a hand caressing your shoulder,
I assume. I think of your hand
caressing my shoulder like breath
pours out from within – there we go

V.26

When heraclitus said all that
about rivers, he just showed that
he didn’t know rivers. I sit
by the same bridge and wier fall

downstream from the flat glass aspect
and watch bubbles pour in the kinds,
genres, types and variations
that this same river holds within.

But of course heraclitus made
a deeper point, that nothing is,
in the sense that words falsify,
and concepts are just one type of

object we wave around like a
loaded gun, violently and
it makes us feel somewhat safer,
the way that leaping off the edge

is better than falling when you
know you have to go either way.
I bought a wrap today, the same
wrap I buy as the sun decays,

and yet it is always different.
The same and the other exist
in an old war – sometimes bombs are
dropped and everything always changes

Another Waterfall Poem From Last Year

3, 6×6, Waterfall

I got a cold last night
crept up on, I crumbled
fell in hot and coldness
under the sheets – time crawled
now, I sit on the wall
and watch the first lacewing

The light – diffused through cloud
low, heavy, though not damp –
stutters off its wings, fast
so it looks, to ill mind
and its machinations
to flutter in and out

of existence, an x
drifting from stone, to flow
blinking. Variables
sparking from the lack-dark
of a barely there head
and crackling eye-nerve knots.