Tag Archives: Nature poetry

phalanx

phalanx

 

the moon

 

the house

 

a constant alliance

 

 

 

when the wind

shakes the tether

 

a known route

becomes uncertain

 

 

 

 

 

extinct riverbed

 

a bone found

in the garden

 

seems human

in the dark

 

 

*

 

 

what is the exact

hour for waking?–

 

 

from a long sleep,

a step—

 

forward with the phalanx

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winter method

winter method

 

sound wavers within the altitude

 

small grains move between here

and the horizon

 

locus of the principe

 

territorial boundaries

 

in the repeat story,

as canyoned as marrow bones

 

*

 

a conifer grows northward

toward an anonymous star—

only a percent

 

ultimate joys

imprint

 

these roots gently in leftover nebulae

 

*

 

too, a story of fog—

 

molecules

stand up, begin slow movements

toward the hearer

 

*

 

hoof beats absorbed in the sand—

the she-horse escapes

east, down the road

 

everyone waits outside

infinity

 

 

not yet the story

not yet the story

 

it was matter

mixed with

reverberation

 

 

of light

 

it was she seeing,

 

against afternoon light

 

 

***

 

impossible reflection itself—

a glance of water surface

 

dark shadows and sky

bright

—to enter

 

as crossing a foreign wall

 

untranslatable

 

always an outside

 

***

 

it is said messages

come from within the nest—

 

difficult to track—

 

footprints continue to evolve

at each windburst

 

***

 

lyric in the underbrush

 

sky sky

 

 

 

 

breath breath

 

 

 

in/eternal

 

and the song

 

***

 

dis-memory,

drawn lines in the palm

 

illusion of gratitude or

an emptiness to wander

 

the old road for the sake—

is not yet the story

 

 

 

 

three o clock

three o’ clock

 

 

a clean root system

for ease of transport

 

conversation

 

only short range

 

 

a longing–

for nectar of one

thousand years’ sleep

and dream

 

*

 

I walk from here

to the edge of indifference,

all the talk—diverged

to an abstract

 

to the sound—is–

the sound of small creatures

within the thicket

 

or–

 

harmonic

flexing of the wind

 

*

 

collided—

thought pulls at underlying meaning

 

 

now stacked and labelled

 

*

 

pre-reflective traveler

in the onset of winter afternoon

stands at a gradient

 

 

as the gender assigned to an hour

 

 

now in between where identity,

irrelevant

 

decisions draw on for hours

 

*

 

the fabric

beneath

the fabric

 

 

stone

within the stone

 

 

is where

 

 

to move

she moves north

she moves north

 

toward the high plain

 

absolved, perimeter lines

where climates

are fixed

 

a deferred hail storm

 

between self

and sky

 

the point of incident

still here,

beneath the pine

 

as interior elements

 

travels through northern

vosotros—

interior codes

never switch

 

and sits, ungroomed,

around the woodfire

 

you can felt the remnants

to house a bird

 

that’s an element

to forget

and learn again

 

 

prospects

prospects

 

evidence of predators

along the fence line—

 

their songs travel among

weeds, burrow

alternate paths

 

parallel shapes

settle,

 

overlays

confuse the lyric

 

*

 

I become entranced

with cast shadows—though

who will believe—

 

dimensions

unfold themselves

 

as a word

spoken

 

glints in the light

 

small to large

to small again

 

*

echoes both hands

in a cooling trend

 

the verge

of a complicated

sleep

 

 

*

 

from atop a boulder,

scanning the paths

for even a glimpse

 

 

this poem cannot be proven

this poem cannot be proven

 

as a proof,

as if mapping the ocean floor

in verse sky maps

 

the moment facts come forward,

line outline

with blank center—

leaves turn yellow

as a consequence of breathing

 

in/vertical dilation—

time slows down

when measured

by a fast moving observer

 

a sentence can’t be both true

and false,

season

and somnolent,

latinate and hand

held

 

certainty undoes

itself, in bark patterns

elaborated

by bore beetles

 

event horizon

where time freezes,

hands fall

to our sides

echoic

echoic

 

incubate words in a bird’s

heart, where O

a discourse marker,

O of recognition,

round and flexible,

to shape a nest,

to live

 

black-red blood of the plum,

ephemeral, contained

by thin skin

 

an eternal child

self

 

makes gesturing hands

human–

motor skills

to carry and crack

an egg

 

plum, your limb

is my limb, contin

ues more limbs, two

of us drawn upward

as go and wend merge to

went

 

undulates vocables of Ur names,

now live on the slate, a trader’s

slang

 

sealed into clay,

opened only

after

the voice

 

Loop topology

Loop topology

 

Born in a small town, walking paths

on imagined maps. Grown where margins

meet green fields, within seed coats

and insect rinds.

 

A screen, to protect

nocturnal animals from our thoughts.

Which must not be documented, only

half-breathed into sheets.

 

To sink into plum bark,

moth wing, a loop to lean into. An imprint

echoes through top soil, between layers

of sun and water, where our voices

leave deposits too faint

to dig up.

 

In that way,

the fields incubate an opening, a closing,

a flowering underground.

 

Very faint vibrations, very

faint, and at home, the blades

of grass have started to count again,

counting faintly but just enough to extend

space beneath story lines.

 

The way space

evolves between roots

growing toward hardpan,

 

the way limits

create novelty

in iterations.