most mornings the bells ring
and i squint with what i hope 
are fresh ears 
against the curtain walls
and try to discern the echo

the future field recordings 
from an era of wild microphones

every device that could be turned on
was turned on

it was a fertile period for those
who chose to check the tape

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with bars and with salt
but no cages or fault

what the sky lacks in size
it makes up in disguise

imposing long lines
and the limits of time

part tall, part crossed, heart wide,
all found after low tide

as the clouded mind is lost in the weeds
the coverage recedes
and the true shore’s revealed

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Sleep in your hole, 
honey, set up shop
in the hardest parts 
of your heart

that dream of id - 
it sits in a hole in the wall
with you inside
more than a crack,
less than a reason to
leave. the climax 
hits the same way. soon this 
becomes the outer edge of a city’s promise
left behind.

you, paving as you go,
sore arms and
and ache and
a promise
every damn time.

if you get ...

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currently the new year rolls in
but had you gotten up high enough
weeks ago
you would have looked east, and
felt it, if not seen it

this cyclic existence is something to
break from,
but facing the wave
so many hear, “stay”

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only one way out 
just like you heard
down the mountain

don't think. 
follow the center
of your future river
down

pass the shed of your 
cousin.
walk.

the country turns dead earth into wood
and i turn it further thus
snapped off in haste once
pegged for eager duty
and held up to the sun for 
those gathered to admire

a tree, a length of tree, a stout
handle to the living, 
...

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