Techniques Of The Observer
At the dawn of enlightened idleness, men built
the camera obscura: boxes of glass and wood
that caught ethereal motion and recreated the world
in miniature, casting it to see.
You were in another room with me
Many times – and years ago, it seems.
Terror ran through our encounters like rain,
Clouds preceding each interaction, like:
This Is Not A Country Song
As we drive this narrow rough of muted dirt, I might
admit – this one time – that you somehow drew me back.
Eyes half-closed, the door swung open
The Goddess Died At Herculaneum
Your face splits with torment like Janus
and creates a mood evocative
of some concoction of grape and spent ember,
a taste encased with what was immediate:
The Birth Of Loss
The silence came mostly between the tides –
in the deep tranquil moments
of gently lapping water
and occasional leaping perch;
This must be how the runner felt:
If I can just hold it together,
tomorrow I’ll be in Thebes.