This Deep Green

This deep green is sea,
is ocean, is the breaking green,
and in this magnolia bob
two tiny beaks, so battened
and downy are the hatches
of this hummingbird nest:
a coracle cresting this branch.
This rushing green is wave,
is roller, is the wrecking green,
and the wave is now, and now
first drops of rain begin the dark.
The nest is barely thimble,
hardly ark, but watertight.
And the chicks sail on
and I can taste viridian
bitter and sweet,
and the growing is psalm
and the green is also leaf.

I Spy a Litany

A curled cat, pumpkin bread,
a red CD, a black TV,
the Canterbury Tales.

Curtains, a kettle,
a motionless fly,
a basket, a lamp,
the magic of rhyme.

The rhythm of dishes
washed at the sink,
rococo October,
the enchantment of Things.

Crows! A sickle!
the man in the moon,
silver, oranges,
an eldritch tune.

A melted candle, Icarus drowned,
a cold surprise, a wet demise,
an existential wail.


Inspired by I. Bogost’s Alien Phenomenology (or What It’s Like to Be a Thing). Written while listening to Alexandre Desplat’s “The Heroic Weather-Conditions of the Universe, Part 1: A Veiled Mist.” Not quite a Latour litany; not quite an ontograph; not quite Marzollo’s I Spy.

Have You Any Carrots?

I miss cheese sandwiches and the sharp-sweet crunch of cold grapes at eleven thirty in the dusty alley of the horse barn on the estate where I worked for six summers, and thought on the doldrum days that I hated the heat and eight hours was hell-o monotony.



I don’t know why I  miss these things.
The only explanation for this wistfulness is uncertainty.
University is grand but the future and its strangers
are nothing like hot horse breath in your ear:
have you any carrots is safe and simple.



Driving in the summer dark,
I hear the music of the spheres.
It is the radio and the rush
of moving lights
and passing cars at night.


We are the little bits of a swirling cosmos:
every one of us a satellite
tracing and retracing orbits,
connecting the dots of constellations.


Something of that
is captured in the glowing gauges of every dashboard,
and I wonder how it affects the private thoughts
of other part-time astronauts.


In Medias Res


Pangolin leviathan,
made of many plates,
sometimes conscious of a certain stiffness at the joints

a thing sprawled over ground and under sky,
not side,
not peripheral but central, centric,
privileged with a centrism of its own.

(The ground cool, seedriddled and solid,
not as concrete but as a sat-on cushion,
a suitable staying place;


the skyside a mechanical mixture,
a lightness,
a thinness,

through which thicker things 
move back and forth.)