I hear the year’s first owl, I see
the summer evenings of wide eyes
come to me, hot on the covers.
I smell and hear the summer come

in dark night at spring’s beginning.
In the parks, people can perform
their social media, can get
the right light, and the right shot done

with the intermittent flash thing
on a stick. Or take photos of
nature, such as it is, confined
within the bounds of the black fence.

The crown-bearer virus is swept
basculating into the rare
and transformative air of the
space between minds, within the park

It propagates everywhere now,
’til every object collapses
into a simulacra full
of small and spherical crystals –

They are spraying from the fountain.
They are clinging to your damp hands.
If you listen you can hear it
their small and terrible prayer


Smash unconscious bias now! Old
things like this fall to us to end
by selective edits of our works
and days. Prune and sculpt our canon

thus to take subtle exclusion
and make it brash for a moment
before using the breeze disperse
to end the dandelion.

Hannah said we should simply think
what we are doing. This is hard
perhaps too hard to succeed at
day after day the fog rolls in

over the ramshackle cobbles.
Let’s try to take pains of process
of pen and paper and avoid
long and still oxbow lakes where life

can find its niche, but is dull to
all except the historical
swimmer, caressed by quiet plants.
I agree with Hannah. I know

difficulties in life which my
skin has allowed me to avoid.
Though I am not my skin. I can’t
do without it, like a soft veil