Fence: Can’t see and ‘should’, a theme, incomplete triumvirate. Stick figure unison lost. Looking out, talking, the stranger perceives the struggle, thin concealment. File & let. One syllable will do. There’s no melody to make the green bearable, just greening and greening violently. Rip and torn and make and try and find and fail but the green’s nothing moving, despite duplicitous cause or stare.


Fence: Blades following heat following a cool that’s only on the skin. Candle wax isn’t hard, isn’t full yet.


To March

Forget conspiracy.

There is no margin.

The trees are bare, ice consistent.

Pity the poor metaphor, barely made.

Arms stretched out, balancing, worried,

considering the circus life, the ever ready jaws.

Crackle & consume. Perch & cast.



Pane: A clear and possible break. No reflection or spatter makes a season, a murder of crows, a ring happen. Attention & reflection, though. His mother's hand, mine, genetic mirror and twist, you know she's not simple and she died young of no air, threw him to the wolf loop, the angles and debris to negotiate and name.


Pane: Squares of vision metal tubes of music, I push out green in different keys. The smell of rain on thick unlikely incense, and old dog limping up, pushing his head into my knee.