acraein

We Bought the Flood -The Books
The triangles on the skin of my hand
match the triangles I drew in the sand
they separate and recreate
and turn into all of the thoughts that I had.
My mind’s eye dilates and I evaluate
each image as it fluctuates, dissipates,

and is gone.
along with the rust and the salt.

I’ll take a ride on some lonesome planet. and let my thoughts sail like warm winds blowing east and up and out into the darkness, and light the sky, glowing northern light, shimmering in the cold brittle air.

Focus, Focus.

image: Raj Hanchanahal Photography

Hypermagic – San Fairy Ann

the tree against a setting sun is the roots of a bean plant growing against a clear plastic glass is the bristles of a brush of horse’s hair is the tip of a cattail swaying in the winds of a low-lain wetlands is natural as all talking sideways and upside down where i get a picture but not a panoramic and it’s only part told is looking though the keyhole of doors that don’t exist and smelling the rub of unpolished brass green with the age of water and grime of hands that grab one another and put things up and take things down and occasionally does things with care like a clockwork worker laying pictures all out in a row of the grandkids he never knew like a stain on the carpet doesn’t know its outline before it’s set is the birthmark on your foot that’s the shape of a duck setting on a pond of algae leaving trailing tails is the tail of a meteor shedding skin in the night sky is a backdrop of milk sewn on black velvet smooth like the white peach fuzz thick and thin alike and i never know the words you mean all doublespeak and doublethink.