between my hand and the table what could be like an ocean

not a sensible word from the pine but you turn over The Hanged Man and whistle what you can of So What

not a moth but a leaf caught in your hindsight

flat angels how far we’ve come

in the distance someone speaks his mind filtered by trees

by the shore of the lake where the lake ends and begins like the land going under it

ignorance is bliss summer marigolds

to keep confusion at bay say the sky lies belly down

i am a bickle it is a travisty

romancing the poet and the poet’s smelly feet born of a universal misunderstanding most eggs remain unhatched

sleep a poppy

there’s an atlas for travellers and one for non-travellers overlapping

besides the pheasant brained pheasant a burial mound and a stone

full of white cabbage and moonlight my kitchen table remains in space