Landmarks, signposts

~ for Dave Bonta

Does a seed anthologize
the customs of trees?
I’ve read books but sometimes
the sea’s voice is more insistent.

When I peer through shop
windows, I’m startled by my image
warping around the dusty hip
of a teapot.

There is never a prescribed
time for a foot to blurt
its confessions in the narrow
toe box of a second-hand shoe.

When I bend to investigate
a dead bird on the walk,
I remember a gate of feathers
and behind it, a face made of milk.

In the dark room,
something brushes against
my bare hand. The moon fluoresces
before I can pull on the cord.


In response to Via Negativa: Capital punishment.

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