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


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

It’s Time

It was like finding
the antique journal
of all the dads in the world
the deathly pencil
of a nineteenth century farmer
his defeated smile
embedded in Oklahoma
a secret wino
there are ghosts at his chalkboard
explaining to no one
under his fingernails
work dust in dust storms
that came up, buried his schooling
his family tapes all the windows shut
to escape the banshees screaming
when the isolation just ran out
they should have just run
on the blinding winds
away from each other
that was the only education