i. “Say the time of moon is not right for escape"
Here I sleep in a stranger’s bed. You
don’t mind. You keep
rearranging bedroom furniture—a nightstand
transforms into a window, 4 pm light
flight to barrage gleaming corners of bedroom
walls, all shoring up to splinter. Golden
rims. A clumsy core terrain. So
what sort of illusion is this, a body
( . . .)
ii. "Three trees were maimed on their account, and I am keeping count"
It is in this dream that you murder her birds.
In a climbing tapestry of forestry
saw-toothed landing shadows—
breech of light like a Jacob's ladder.
At first what's seen scatters
in glow-smoke and manufacture,
then an eye-crash, feathered
light, air luminous, bodiless.