bookbinder

atlas and    fire

a medieval pronoun

makeshift engine
-Do not use boiling water-
skin pores.    adjectives

on the underside of a kid

draw the cosmopolitan

in a tree.
this new composition

seasons

the word and the thing

on the unmasked pages.
wind    touch

the paper    the moulding

a manufactured

entitlement always somewhere else.
-The ghost in the plastic agrees-
breath    stirs

old questions in new English.

I measure my length

of time or narrative
living

living

living.
that mercenary ethic

looks nothing, just ingredients

slowly made

from day to night.
what has gone missing

-the fine creation full of holes-

the unbearable rumbling

worse than     a clock
you don't see     are linebreaks

typed-The salt rising to the surface-

a short lesson

enjoining us to attend more closely
to     weaving    nothing

half a line

blunt pencils

inkless pens.
the smell of    ordinary life

thick with resistance

troubles,    leaving an eerie absence

to guide us    reliant on reflection.
a path leads

out of these trees

Someone imagined

in the roaring library-
words hand-tied    lined in rows

behind the small splinters

and wood grain,    teasing out

flecks of leaf.    I thought
recyclable materials

are subject to change.

tenderness    guarding    nothing

must be so hungry.