Tag Archives: Reverie

not even a town

not even a town


mud-black knees,

tunnel through hours—


but they were silent.


in-fluent veins of grass


conversation in threads,

the hours


at the ends or beginnings

of threads


an entire sky


web of threads


to get a sweater from the house


thereafter, the test

of an equine confidante


black plum relevant to time

and space


water in the foot print


water in the gopher hole


rain-wet birth of the spring creatures

balled, or translucent, wedged

in the soil


the red flag is up

on the mailbox



hiss on the road


an unseen person

humming into a task


a generational field

yields a warning sign


an analogue feline

fades into memory





states of being

states of being


how is it

with you–?



of midseason



in the elements,

attach to storied lineage

as true


others, too wild

to hold their features

in memory


a long walk

in cold air


the illusion


certainty con-



if a dream is real,

it’s below,

in the arroyo

after the minus-y


in the saddle

of the parabola,

where all ends meet


where there is only ever after



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



these roots gently in leftover nebulae




too, a story of fog—



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





Sometimes we feel obligated to “schedule” our day (even weekend days). Try to find time to be alone today, to observe the wonders of the world around you in solitude, for the benefit of your soul. . . and enjoy a short passage about the subject of daydreaming, from The Poetics of Reverie by French philosopher, Gaston Bachelard:

What a lot of proper nouns come to wound, rag, and break the anonymous child of solitude! And in memory itself, too many faces come back to prevent us from finding the memories of times when we were alone, very much alone in the profound boredom of being alone, free to think of the world, free to see the sun setting, the smoke rising from a roof, all those great phenomena which one sees badly when he is not looking at them alone.

Smoke rising from a roof! . . . a hyphen uniting the village with the sky . . . In memories it is always blue, slow light. Why?

When we are children, people show us so many things that we lose the profound sense of seeing. Seeing and showing are phenomenologically in violent antithesis. And just how could adults show us the world they have lost!

They know; they think they know; they say they know . . . They demonstrate to the child that the earth is round, that it revolves around the sun. And the poor dreaming child has to listen to all that! What a release for your reverie when you leave the classroom to go back up the side hill, your side hill!

What a cosmic being the dreaming child is!


To my lovely readers: have a wonderful, daydreaming Sunday!


Excerpt from The Poetics of Reverie: Childhood, Language, and the Cosmos; Gaston Bachelard, trans. Daniel Russell. Translation by Grossman Publishers, 1969. Originally published in 1960 as La Poetique de la Reverie.





“we thus discover within ourselves an immobile childhood,

a childhood without becoming. . . “


Air vibrates through a stone wall. A living object is in the wall.

Dreaming fixed, you dream a fissure, but what fissure

“never opened to a wellspring?” (I imagine the waters hung

with nazars against malefice.)


Vaulted retina and nerve, this origin opens. Canticles of illusion

palpate at the shoreline out of reach. Or recedes. For some,

this shimmering is all. Or an in-hand deficit.

See: notes on permanence.


The bare opening of a levered window. “What’s next,

what’s next” he said. “In a nameless hour, the world is affirmed

for what it is” she said. “Shameless–!” he said. I had been dreaming up

reasons from patterns in this stone, this refraction

as the plumb line up from water’s dire utility.



Count of Villiers de L’Isle-Adam, Isis (1862).

Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Reverie (1971) originally published as La Poetique de la Reverie (1960).




remember, you were born

an unspecified point


wire line across the palm,

you wondered what would happen—

wrap around the wire


remember—the puncture

points do not end, project

through to depth poles

through to recurring birth


air mixes with blood in the palm,

between divine aberrations


where noses in the grass where

there is only grass


black, twitching points dance

across field surface


merge, become one

for a moment then

expand, break apart


fly far away

to come back


viscous lines outline

familiar shapes within reach

to space beyond



at each opening,

a line is a tether,

or conveys air for travel


is how deep you breathe

through the aperture

fossil record

fossil record


“is it possible for a creature to remain

alive inside stone, inside

this piece of stone?”


encased as a means to consider interior

spaces, infinitesimal

pace, try to map the molecules move . . .


infer the biosphere

in fractal layers’ repeat

as the next, and the next

explodes from a singularity

as creation stories and

calcified sequence lead us

to long, ever inward—


the models break down

past all possible progress


density perceived as holding,

as any creature down deep needs

to be squeezed, a constant to exist


though bones do not convey ghost lineage,

it’s in the traces of two at once,

triangulate elements as the breath

in strata, the giver where there is no need


Linnaeus, hierarch,

forever holding in place

our kind as distinct

in the descendancy


within a kingdom in ourselves

natural descendants of pressure, though

captured bones leave room

in the schema for the coelacanth,

the plesiosaur, early beings crept back

into mud, leaving the rest of us

to our agoras and sins


visible record leaves space

in between incidents for the metastic



as a bother to Linnaeus—the warm vibrations

in the horse’s throat. The eye of the dog

that twitches toward, without any

other move. Aberration in the bird’s eye.

A bloom opens. The next bloom, pistil-less

in the wind. Vacuum release as a bus door opens.

The metal sign at the sidewalk says “coming

soon” with no method to interpret what’s coming


where divergent atoms bond together,

a movement somewhere between stone

and a restless sleep