Manifold

Each day ends up monumental. I lay in them as though in a mammoth footprint. On my back and shoulders something like Heavy. Like snow, though I wouldn't know anything that.

He stood over me, the yellow trees along the two-lane, barely cast a shadow.
There is a posture: the quilt on the bed spread, the white sheet, the delay. Where do the deer go in the rain? Where do the deer go in the rain?

The white flowers from the trees run like styrofoam across the ragged parking lot. I return to the day.

How does the dried dead snail cling to the curb like that. The corpse melted, melded, touched the concrete and understood that truth could be found in staying there, perpendicular to the sky and to the lot. The whole lot. In my shadow I see strands jump laterally like kite strings. 

Parabolas of movement - I saw a big pig, a black boar, on the side of the freeway. On the side of the fence where one must assume its death will be automized.

I've thought about what I would say if someone asked me what I was doing -

There is still a rhythm missing in most of it, though sometimes, I hit upon it and can hear it singing. 

I hold my head behind the ears to see what it might feel like for someone else's hands - see what it feels like. I remove my coat and inspect the dander, run like styrofoam, like white flowers. 

The birds rested on the stones. The deer won't cross the fence line. He stood over me, hair the metal dish, glasses to see the deer, and the clear free day.

People require silence now, no rotary chatter, no accent, no incident. 

Breg headstream

Breg headstream

You see:
the pennant flaps
yielding in the grey morning
Rabid against
the bugged frame

Not yet, 
the young chicken is thawed, raw
needing the week 

How it expands:
the change,
That Cunning change 

the snow caps turn quick
Will turn to tassels soon: 

In spring the Donau floods to get back to Volga in her drained basin. 

Suddenly the trees are blooming and it stinks like the The Valley. I can hear the angry cows where I’m crouched on the concrete ramp. Yesterday she pointed at one of the blooming trees and exclaimed how beautiful, I see her pointing in these as well. Every tree, small face, teeth, pointing. The cows groaning from over on the other hill sound much too close, that sound and that stink. At lunch I’ve considered stopping to see the calves, but always something else going on. A little ledge over which I never cross. A type of small daily precipice. 

Two flocks of starlings pass over head, sounding like metal birds. Small metal clanking, bolts turning in their sockets, little steel tabs. This is a false land, this swath here. The squat looming versus the flat green lumpy. I love you I love you touch typed back at the desk. I speak with my grandfather on the phone multiple times in the parking lot, my mother says “talk to him before he no longer recognizes you”. His hair is longer, I say I’ll see him in the summer, “deine ist viel länger, Sommer, ist das bald?” We are both much too entrenched in our age. 

I hear sirens over on the other hill, the green hill. So many sirens, the angry cows, the clean expanse. I expect the cows are on the road again, needing herding again. The medicine is dry. I tried to take it no water in the car. The lot out here is windy. I tried to understand it at a distance, with the sounds it made and the items passing hands. I didn’t learn anything. 

I dream about the man that owns this land, bought it for the mineral rights. He hung that banner from the lamp post that flaps like bleached ripped jesus in the fog and setting wind. The field is empty and green because one day he will need to dig. He will put an ad online and bring men to dig and fill into buckets. Who combed my opa’s hair? Who will comb mine? 

On the leftish hill stand three objects: two palms and a billboard. Big advertisement for hill for sale, the second green hill. No minerals there, just the two palms and the billboard. The palms throw two thin legs of shade down the near side of the hill. The grass doesn’t make sound, only the cars and beeping, metal clanging from the warehouse and the birds. The cows, also, when they’re close and angry, make sound. The first hill has a clump of oaks in one of it's folds, looks like it’s embarrassed. As though it’s shrugging away, the clump so embarrassing.

Nonce prayer

Nonce prayer 

A tree fell in the graveyard to lay 

among the resting. 

A man on his wharf, axing the ice

into the bay.  

A boat beat at the mooring to say, 

go on, let him run.

One day I will have a son

and I believe that is more important 

than boughs laid over the stones. 

Fourth sunday of ordinary time

Fourth sunday of ordinary time

I changed my mind I don’t want 
to be                                                          a dog again 

No rocks no 
ditches 
no bushes
Not the practice nor the postbox 

Perhaps I may be sheltered I could 
I could lay soft 
And lay low
singing into it I could 

On Monday I will 
pasture and couch the flocks with none to disturb them.

 

Fresnel Lens

My eyes set behind my eyes set above the 

nose – watched me draw a bull

Scab the scalp the skull Hitting 

the corners, want to see the calves

the colts 

Thank you for Easter, for 

Paul, the 

pocked drive and 

also,  

The keeper 

out 

at the lighthouse, heard

piping from the 

gulls, the gannets 

the gadfly Knocking 

into the tide the

hobbled pegs the rendered

fat and what now 

remains kept 

on the eastern sill

Anita

Last summer Anita heard impossible anomalous radio pulses, not from outer space, where Anita was meant to listen, but from below the ice. Anita was built to track neutrinos; you have a billion neutrinos passing through your thumbnail at any moment. Neutrinos detected by Anita must travel to Antarctica without interacting with anything else. Anita could be detecting a neutrino coming from the edge of the observable Universe. There are new, unknown types of particles or processes in the universe. Could be tau leptons, which emerge from the Earth and decay into atmospheric showers that could generate detectable radio waves. This theory is unlikely. In science, finding nothing often means finding something.

stratostat balloon

                  Anita

I've recently been fascinated with Antarctic infrastructure. There is something poetic about it, indescribably so.