After an infinite season

in a city of few trees

the volume knob ripens

this tragedy to a soaring wound.

There are other worlds next to our fingers

½ wind, ½ budded leaf, all werewolf

green upon the beloved mountain

all creation fades to voice

The poems stray at the mention of hymns and anthems

the wind from the north has a nutty flavor

that’s the non-technical language of fire

the meticulous teasing of air by inhalation

apocalypse for dummies, the air inside a joke

impossible or just difficult, like fig growing in Ontario

I greet you in the place of the seekers: a hum, not a place

when the taste of dust passes over the tongue

Shearwaters off the coast

of a new green Antarctica

a swarm of tender, indifferent greetings

microscopic fuzz in the spume

fate swarms the whole

everything’s gone sea-surface gray

I bet you could be glad in a halo of rough seas

off green cliffs, sea wrack for an adjacent world

It no longer snows in this country.

So what. You found a secret stair

opening on a drought-garden

some pebbles tossed

in the desert roses, semi-wilted

wonderful, yellowed, well, you know

suffering to cover the suffering.

It no longer snows in this country.

Assess the curriculum of smoke

in a halo of pine-scented oils:

it’s lux, billows up the oiled light

drifts into the leg hair, lux, deluxe.

It would be kinda delicious if you

could teach the odd powers

of weather to flame and lick up. Ugh,

those old noises. Scorched. Again and again

In a meditative fear

a big, pictureless dollar bill

enjoys looking serene, is covered in barf

look at it, resting on a bed of de-platformed biomass

what to do with such cruel peace

gentle thing, reader, test the stillness

a picture of the opposite world

we’ll have to get there on foot

light-slashed ridges form a scorpion’s tip