D e n n i s J a m e s S w e e n e y —

Know the dead by the way they whisper

cold breaths into light     Children climb into books

Oceans arrive    

     I am here to stop seething

Ghosts roam the road in coils of green fire

Green is a cloak for living when there is no face

An insect softness

is enough from

the still lakes,

cellophane towers

lift breathy ahead

though teeth split

at daybreak, cold

retires, and hairs

singe our bedding

in dreams: trees

like freighters,

eggs and their

archetypes spin

When I was safe

I grinned but never

reckoned, I tried

until the future

stared freezing

at me in my warm

attempt, still lakes

held my stomach

The sacrificial tent

of imagination

trapped me

Our canoes

leaked, or I wept

until I climbed

a hillside and looked

over the water we

rowed with oars

because you need

something to

touch with

We maneuvered

between the ice

We floated like fish

The wild mirror

forgives and

forgives but I

have a personality

to skim, tufts

of hair on the

silver water, ar-

rival lunges for

an animal brick

I would not invent the wheel

     if given new land

A robot brooks no mystery

I can     across spaces

Sliverization comes    

and homelife

     —stops to seethe

Green if day rose at the shore

A miracle gusts

sharp by the lake-

side in ice, gift

of gold thirst

and cup filled

with strategy:

People speak

microland for

steam in autumn,

fall to keep God

keen with breathy

plot, a semaphore

in field uncharted

bids small animals

to heal and peck

at me now (hymn

is process, a relative

yellow long lost

to mealtime’s

tender roar)

As next

the tongue

springs grayish

from the lake

It is clear

no rightword

lies in chiffon

Grift only

has this elusive

“inspiration”

but we drink it

and gurgle as

we sang in the

dulcet days:

On, oh gust

of grains of

seasons

.