Strand. String.
In this dream,

the paths cross
and cross again.

They are spelling
a real boy

out of repetition.
 •

Each one
is the one

real boy.

Each knows
he must be

wrong
about this, but

he can’t feel
how.
 •

The fish
and the fisherman,

the pilot,
the princess,

the fireman and
the ones on fire.

Where there’s smoke
there are mirrors

and a dry ice machine,
industrial quality fans.

If I’ve learned anything
about the present moment
 •

But who doesn’t
love a flame,

the way one leaps
into being

full-fledged,
then leans over

to chat
 •

Already the light
is retrospective,
sourceless,

is losing itself
though the trees
are clearly limned.

There is no magic any more,
      We meet as other people do,
You work no miracle for me
      Nor I for you.

You were the wind and I the sea—
      There is no splendor any more,
I...

We've always been out looking for answers,
telling stories about ourselves,
searching for connection, choosing
to send out Stravinsky and whale song,
which, in translation, might very well be
our undoing instead of a welcome.

We launch satellites, probes, telescopes
unfolding like origami, navigating
geomagnetic storms, major disruptions.
Rovers...

The tide ebbs and reveals orange and purple sea stars.
I have no theory of radiance,

                but after rain evaporates
off pine needles, the needles glisten.

In the courtyard, we spot the rising shell of a moon,
and,...

It is winter in Anchorage, and I am only as tall as the shoveled snowbanks in the parking lot of the pink apartments. I am old enough to have chores but young enough not to fully understand frostbite. It is...