breach the pattern

breach the pattern


internal effect


on gravel


wild chamomile is a weed

in the road, don’t

eat it,

it is tainted.


in each direction, the distance

misleads—The road

never narrows to a point.



out of reach.


faces in vehicles–

barely a face–

zoom past, a moment

of round recognition


the high

speed mirror

carries part of my face

out of reach.


in defiance,

I carry in my palm

the answer to an unasked






a priori

a priori


not so evident in the boundary

of my skin


the dawn toll


a (mis) nomer


fed to the city noise

an other—




a ruthless calm


within the stagnant

fountain, miniscule

creatures move


they listen with their feet


all the manmade

hollows, the cobbled

secret, the causeway,

the dead wires




and nothing to fill it—




the dreamed incident

totters and tilts


(             how I do neglect

my origins)