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.