His tongue got stuck to a battery node,
working its shimmer in a pale of water.
The ripples drummed from the Pleistocene
smoking air with lightening,
smacking trees, trembling heels.

From the tips of wings his shirt billowed
at the buttons, while he boxed clouds, daring
sky to limit what his voice could pry
off the buried, of the names
no one left could pronounce.

At the crests of his awakenings, his fingers froze,
wind tore the ice from his hair, his pulse
retreated to its root. Heeding prophecy,
he made string hum, then reeds, till the forests
swayed and shook their needles.

The halls filled, the floors were muddy.
We crowded in with everyone,
curious to watch the hatchling
peck through its shell.

[15]
         from a sequence, Comme Ci, Comme Ca

The rippling thrummed since the Pleistocene,
shimmers now in a pail, lapping at the rims.
The sky inhales the lightning in a cloud’s last glimpse.
A martin tucks its wings in a somersault dare
with mosquitoes, gnats, arrows of Artemis, winning
the draw for a hot, full bath in a cerulean wash.
It’s the mirror-sheen that practices in the lake’s calm light
to keep the sloshing down to a filament.

[15]
         from a sequence, Comme Ci, Comme Ca

The rippling thrummed since the Pleistocene,
shimmers now in a pail, lapping at the rims.
The sSky inhales the lightning in a cloud’s last glimpse.
A martin tucks its wings in a somersault dare
with mosquitoes, gnats, arrows of Artemis, winning
the draw for a hot, full bath in a cerulean wash.
It’s the mirror-sheen that practices in the lake’s calm light
to keep the sloshing down to a filament.