transit authority

forests_of_rain_ns

While forests of rain
are tumbling from the clouds,
she sleeps.

From each exhaled breath,
swarms of insects, transparent to opaque,
spiral fluttering, butterflies to birds
inflating,
to armadillo exhalations.
And soon there will be humans
in the aisles of nature’s
megastore.

In a flurry of her own creations,
the goddess wakes.

I will not take that path again.

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after the mowing is done

broken_promises_s

Many things, amongst them, Martians,
are allegorically immune,
just and only themselves.

What might now be learned?
Shall we hang our knowledge bright
on wooden poles, defiant glows beneath the arc
of Google Sky?

When the ladybugs conquered my kitchen
their ultimatum made reference to aphids and fleas,
and so with the Martians—a hunger for
combustible life.

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constructions

shapes in clouds

Last night I dreamt we went together to the sea
and joined the others gathered on the beach,
figures made of sand who dreamed within a dream
of alluvial forgiveness.

From the kitchen doorway
a flock of shadows flies out on the ridge,
and in the gullies yellowed smog
is bleeding from the ground.
The earth is sick, reclaiming its own,
and the far horizon is a never ending fuse,
unquenchable linear fire.

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the invisibilities of ilhabela

invisibilities

This is what Jandira told me—

The invisibilities will ascend from ground and green,
from fields of stubbled corn and furrowed dirt,
from the Amazonic jungle
through the tree lines to the turbulence above.

Now I’m perched in a jacaranda,
and set to fade like Carroll’s cat, the great auk and the dodo,
with my telescope trained on the far horizon
where the welded night’s creation is rising with the dawn.

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the shallow end

commuting in hyperspace

The i-coupé makes its debut.

So silvery and sleek, and quiet
as a mouse trying to purr,
no steering, no gearstick or pedals.
The salesperson kept on talking,
but I was already sold.

It doesn’t have a motor at all.
A universal transport moves you
to a nearby timeline, where
the i-coupé’s a little further
down the street.

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when will the mowing be done?

apples of the earth

the motor stutters and misses
the blades strike sparks off stones
he mows the lawn to dullness and straw
while he dreams of crystal forests,
of garden glades and Gaia
in the tunnel of the last afternoon
when the angels of air fall burning to earth
and the angels of rain are lost at sea
the mowers will rust in the meadows of ash
and no-one will need to mow

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