Near the written sound
the dripping of trees   
and the reverse sunset

mostly a mauve and orange
or a yellow and black
or scarlet-yellow zig

native pattern with caribou
turns morning-glory blue
hand painted sunrise

I wear on a leather cord
around my neck, pellet
of just a few syllables

capsule of landscape
Bead-Sized Landscape
swinging from my throat

while polar stars of faith
in my ears zip in
opposite directions

• • •


In a catalog
of shadowboxes,
a recliner, braided rug,
taped-on window,

A gloved hand will appear,
hover over the list.

The recliner is forest green
with a lever
for lowering or
raising one’s position,

a cascade of mountain
flowers in the throw-blanket,
a stack of conversations
like already-read magazines
beside the cut-out
brass poker.

The gloved hand
pushes apart two commas,
makes more room.

In a shadow’s box,
a recliner, circular rug,
reading lamp, cobra,
and fireplace.

An avalanche of alpine
flowers ( // ) spills into
a novel by Murakami
or Saknussemm

for a book report
lying facedown
on the seat cushion
as a cone of light interrogates
the back of the chair

with a view of
the paper-mȃché volcano
at the science fair.

The gloved hand
moves to the end
of the catalog.

Round and round on the rug,
the centipede time
line circles the Lazy Boy,

dragging centuries  
and pictures from a man’s life
as little boxes attached to its legs
since the last line of this poem islike a parade dragon.