The Age of Speculation


Drift is choice
This year ghosts meander

Something waits
inside love letters

something remembers
its many stones

In counterpanes you push against
what is useful in what is new

but what remains is either surprise
a patterned display

for example in the delicate
reader of trees who admits nothing

The actualities are drawn like bruises
the way genius will crash into lanterns

or simply windows
in numbered stripes on hillsides



Places I've Been

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