with this blood type no relative planet

sleeping sickness the big bang theory theorizes itself

dead sea scrolls the question mark moans

scarecrow hung in a Jesus Christ pose

corn fields spoken harvest on the wind

in whispers the Himalayas of my mind

in whispers the Himalayas of my mind

in a beached whale a party of reluctant prophets

as an allegory it’s the candle inside the moth

in a dream about cream angels with cardamom wings I put out my cheroot in Freud’s eye

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

perfectly orange Israeli orange without walls

should have realised the ocean springs from a spider

another lake I didn't think of living

still on Daylight Savings Time a hoot owl

leaves for a bit longer

thirteen dead c 13 dead cats dog

dumping it as a hole in the city a possible future