a child's
fingertips like 10 distant stars
reach toward me
in perhaps. my inability

to use a sextant,
scrabbling round
to land you
on my H

to the sound of a choir
of freckles. i will lie
to you. how close i am
to earth! virtually
a white horse
chalked in blood.

have i failed to bring you
out of myself?
if i could love you
alone into me, i would.

i search the hands
to dig you out
with astrolabe,
to tend you right
through fiery hoops
as rain.


rolodex of stars,
you have probably
already died
a thousand times over.
the light i see is only just
travelled here.

i wait in my plastic chair,
and write quiet essays
on bushido,
stuck in lists-
my two cold hands
like swans of ice.


I wake up to the rain, and am pleased 
for the garden, dry as a nun’s lips.
I stare at it, growing it out in my

brain. I suppose I am a dying breed,
I say, and wish I was smoking-
at least I was a nihilist, back in the day.

I suppose I am. I keep doing these
Internet tests and looking at stranger's
photos. I can’t see myself in them.

Pouring themselves out into progress
like little pilgrims, the girls miss
trains, their mothers and sisters on them.

The sun comes out. I am pleased
for the garden. Later I will sit in a
bar, talking about things I disagree with.

My flesh will be observed. Invisible
score cards will score my body
to the patterns of pop-stars. 

I could do without mine, in reality.
It isn’t me, and never was.
I am a tendril of light, orographer.

I refresh myself and put away
days, like balled socks-
crowing up to the yellow-toothed moon.