Cast a splint of night
around the broken figments
of trees’ imagination;
fill with velvet void the cracks
in the trunks of reality
and thread the branches
with garlands of stars
that they may bath in silver light
the wounds of daylight hours,
dress them with gentler grace,
as you bind together
the frayed branches of ideas
so none will stray to far and break;
and mend the rough, crumbling bark
with your own hands, placing them
in holes left by the missing patches,
covering the raw, bare sinews
of the universe within

and the world will make it through another night.

The Way We Don’t Rhyme

And maybe it is a foreign language, maybe I was abandoned in this spot without such tools, such conveniances stashed in my luggage

and maybe it is a strange tongue, not mine, not rolling around in my mouth to come out as polished marbles
so I pray with my lips shut
in silence deemed irreverent to the sacred space held for metre and the rise and fall of kingdoms of melodic articulation

kneeling at the altar of shards
and rising to stand as
I build myself into a tower of images, of unspoken wordy height and touching liminality in more dimensions than a tongue could squeeze between two lips and two breaths,

no rhymes to a reason hidden from
an ear to the ground,
approaching infinity in the collapse of the tower, and finally, noise

but I am long gone to another metaphor, hiding under the table on which knowdledge is served in the shape of gold-dusted fruit;
hiding I lick my fingers after touching them all and dreaming of rearranging them into
run-on sentences stacked into paragraphs, pyramids balancing tension and beauty
and yet
you ask for another tower, but with
a sounding bell and a song

and I leave in a fade of thunder


I want to talk about the unspoken lines,
the pages ripped out of the book even before showing
the first draft to the first few initiates outside
the brain that conceived the perceptions noted
and burnt
but reconstructing the ashes would mean creating ink that stains
fingers and all the following pages
so there is silence
and white-out tape wound around a barbed tongue
securing all the omissions to prolonged oblivion
until one day it might dissolve
and words will scratch the itching blankness
leaving supposedly haphazard marks on paper
a palimpsest, in hindsight


And there are stories stuck
under your skin
wrapped around your spinal column
in tender, haunted tendrils
of nine-tailed jellyfish trailing
across your arms mystical words
uttered in underwater caves
between the clenched teeth
of stalagmite salamanders
and the stalactite eyes of the universe,
where fire mountain meets black hole
and permafrost seeps into your core,
making you part of a landscape
unmapped, unmoored, unshared
save for the fragment you manage to break off and carry out
hidden and warmed under your tongue.

Old Codes

Saturn’s rings and whispers in static,
carrying messages encoded in poetry:
past and present in colliding spaces
and small towns buried in desert sand
after ships took off and dragons took wing
following twinkling multiverse suns into
the familiar pull of the unknown

Snail Solipsism

Solipsistic snails dreaming of being
the dream of a walrus, a unicorn, maybe,
not knowing nobody knows
who exists, who doesn’t,
but knowing by tiny beating snail heart
there are trees under the snow of
the sunken city marble eaten away
by currents carrying stoic fish,
ignorant of questioning dreamers
and their unlayering of realities inside mathematically sequenced shells