On this verge the finite mind must pause

 

The Lost Gangways

Seed-stitched scars of braille

The contours of our own journeys

We are tumuli and burial mounds

Knot-embroidered onto silken maps

Filled with emptinesses of unexplored spaces

Where bodies froze in the unexpected ice drifts.

 

Automated navigators sneer with knowing all the ways

But in those gaps there were always monsters.

Trace their swimmings in tattoo welts

Feel the voids where we hold them still

Awaiting black water passage

In each new-opening lead.

Ladder to the Stars

 

  

A Poetical Commonwealth of My Own

 

Baba Yaga Asks Directions

 

Happy Hour

 

The Submarine Candle