to Carl Anderson
At the back then tack left . the lady white though
game fair pointed ~ on the other side occurring just
across a 9/11 memorial display whose freeze dry
billowy might have beckoned her first.
Off workday anytime is good; visitors must card pass
blood braising city styles : wait schedules escalator
floats . down concatenation tunnels linking every port
authority vet heavy.
No grace full circles river mists your
brush blade parted once . on point the bowman’s pole
through signs > shot slinging peopled colors out the forest.
There I get : your ribbed glaze tangents
breaking out stamp borders . glass case public stationed
here | can’t be too careful these days. So trips one
way to radiant close.
See something say something frames what
sunlight finds . under street feet . paint lines shed vein
grid alerts ~ just saying.
– W.W.
THE NEXT LITTLE AWAKENED ONE
WRITES HOME
We touch on the roundest things as though
they were flat. We know
we float on the surface of a globe
but walk along the lines of a map
and let sentences
deflate our arcing telepathy
into the tightropes on which we inch
between here and there
and call that dicey balancing-act
the art of falling on our feet
while still in mid-air
where the anguish of this wingless bird,
locked to a ladder of light on his
way back to you, starts,
towards but one stop ‒ when every rung
will have been reveined by also his blood.
(from “Nor Like An Addict Would” © by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 