Adrift

Levees break in the brain. Wind

flips the leaves over. This

late morning the sun

still hasn’t burned off

the bad dream from earlier.

Something is subtracted, added

from what you though was

permanently. Everywhere I

is under construction. Half of this

is an illusion. See here you

there is no place that does not from.

Observe the pieces piled around

temporary walkways, cocoons

wrapping condos. Before our

earthen time, directionless,

hardens into labyrinths. Later you

always mistake it for

the changer.

Newfangle

Given time engineers arise from bricoleurs. What ideas happen

between the things and the things they might become. Muse,

don’t abandon me to my loneliness if I harbor strange ideas

of science! Yes, welcome back to the land of simplicity and

making sense, you say. Roots the new sprigs contain, catch

in my throat: it’s what we have to work with now. We see one-

time abstractions have now insinuated themselves inside the

particulars of our daily life. In the last few years, for instance

we have got to thinking hard about garbage. Although we still

compose our journals with an ear out to history. Prints found

recorded deep in the tuff of—wait for it—our memory. Both

something we had forgotten but had never before seen. That

almost identical pair, tug-of-warring with the rest of nature.

But we are floating on air, on some kind of bridge. On either

end is the world.