From out this window
I watch a wire
in the snow
The purity of its intent
To exist
It is nothing like the wings
That also shadow this glass
It is the thing
Of which hours are made
A piece of string
You believe in it one day
The way it crosses the landscape
Something holds it at either end
But these anchors
Are mercifully out of our view


string ten (in a cemetery)

the trees cast a net
of sound
in wind


(if tomorrow
can bother
being yesterday)


who am I to say
if you fall
you rise


I find
one of your hairs
in a book


we stand on a promontory
and cast nets


into a photograph
where I’m going
Be Right Back


The winter school is dark now
The chalkboard has numbers of past eons
Twombly loops of them    an older teacher’s
Appearing to sink deeper within it
Is there a deeper?
Chalk is the bones of ancient scuttling animals
Soft bottom      billions of sea years
Compressed to dream
Touch the soft breast of something that hardened
The whiteness of eyes
Children hold it in their small fingers
These are creatures that formed your eyes
Dabbling in crystals     set into a head
Various refractions
They are incarnation too
The innocence of appetite is baffling
Even these numbers want to separate out forever
It’s as if there were a place to get to
Words are onward
The chairs in its classroom are a pause in gravity
Then they start to float upwards
Children fall asleep with chalk dust on their hands
The numbers, like basilisks, start to come down
Come down off the blackboard
And go seeking prey elsewhere