reflect the sky at the dividing line
thousands, pilgrims, acrobatic flight
cautionary signals, holy outline
carry the form of grace and light.

countable and uncountable, alight
coastal meadows of purple aster
neon sun behind the fog, fading night
winged silhouettes settling at Big Sur.  

aerial blueprints, circling wet fir,
time resolved into opaque brushstroke,
compass lines, body before mind, umber
cliffs springing off a morning flock, awoke.

       red on red ridden their wild throats, pigment
       of deepest origin, indifferent.

surprising misdirections
      palliate these
      inadequacies.

floral hearts, echoic,

             right in the
                          unspoiled

                           ­                          middle.

it’s not so much about
the mountains,
but the way they cut
     the sky, assuming space
     inch by inch.
kind of rude, really.

either way these aren’t
my mountains
and those aren’t my dairy
calves, huddled around
the lapis-filled oxbow for
midday siesta.

-

lately my hair tangles
in the wind,
not complaining.

secondary (gleam white bright)-
op ed: the wet fields are yellow
and shouldn’t be. bless the anxious
farmers
                who wait.

the most luminous on the spectrum
egg yolk, ripe lemons,
objective.  turn the screen
of the mind. IKEA, bookshelf,
adjustable shelves,
a bird of open deciduous edges
and forests  (Yellow-Throated Vireo).

             we solve the yellow
             on top of the Rubik's cube
             in two steps:


              orient and cross, coward-
              look at the stars.

bookseller, revving habit/fever

the Wright book, I say.
the poems about the tree,
           elbows on the counter.

i say i say i say, leaning in.

                                                         a drop of rain
                                                         lingers on a pine
                                                         needle   finds my
                                                         finger    my lips.  

unseen is not vacancy.

-

the question of a pile
of decayed blue feathers-

where does our power
come from?

             a magic trick-

off trail   recording time
many months and nothing,
though today my
       dead bird
       is back, disappearing.

i see a maze where you take every left

typesetting-

                   thought for the
                   sake of thought

(dangerous)

this used to be me, but I’m getting better
fix yourself before the machine!
narrow the lens-

                        up the
                      mountain
                         down
                   to the ocean

completing
the flow
         chart