15.
Catastrophe a downturn
in the affairs of men a broken
staircase
they hop after women bearing seed
what men call catastrophe nature
calls change
transformation of every species start
with me
rocks are living too I am the first
Posthuman
water has even more life than I
unstanched by identity
fierce well-unintenioned sea
we go to war with subtle instruments
Scots mixing buttermilk and beer
lamps they have they pass to others
others wander in the ill-lit street.
16.
Passacaglias don’t come every day
true or false, false, the street
always beckons, the ricercare though
is
especially of six voices rare
abandon all pretense before the Wood
of Nakedness
where the owls turn into savvy virgins
rather fierce around the hipbones
nanofiber
your dream is wind from Above
false a dream is a dream and so is
this
a good argument for turning on the
light
elsewhere a gander gabbles on a gable
and poetry somehow will never quite give
up.
