Poetry

Just as a swarm pours from a hollow rock
In one long beeline for the wild thyme,
Alighting in clusters on this purple and that,
But is stricken with a mass amnesia
That disorients the compass of the sun,

My room’s the shape of a cage
The sun crooks his arm through the bars

the wind carries 
its empty package 
through the streets

The cloud moves off the escarpment.
The man is seen on the granite face,
A spider, hanging for a long time

What did he say, coming out of that cave
After a hundred forty days, and the world
Still skipping past the stars, the sun

The tall Fijian spears a giant turtle
And hurls him down upon the foaming breakers;

I give the black pit dream’s head,
not fearing to hit bottom, to the water
I offer my head like a stone,

The death of the father is my shepherd,
me maketh me three versions of wanting.