Cross-legged

we are, so limboed in the high

phen and all the lowly below

in the pen they follow their line

across the fell and those fallen

between lies and egos and I am

a small figure sat in a foreign land

offering you nothing from my

upturned palm, if you have received

this message in error, please notify

immediately the sender, then delete

the wording must be kept in a safe

agree or we will suspend again &

half-witted, wait.

In flight

the snow-capped is a plosive

landscape of shards of flint

uncomfortable for giant fakirs

to tread, valleys are animal backs

feeding at the rack, valleys a whisp,

fathomless smoking sunlight,

climb to the crest, traverse this

icing-sugar slopes are mortal

seamless frontiers staunch sieves

the blue light reveals a death

in flight

Looking ahead?

 
This is our mortal earth, our worldly fleece

sodden from icecaps, our cosmic rays

tucking holes around us burning old fossils.

I stand one leg rooted in a certain spot,

the other draws a huge circle in the sand

I put my head in, on the move constantly.

We may compass anything, once eyes see

these things are veils and coverings,

look not at what we did, but what can be.

I sit on the fence, deadwood props it up,

edging an arena embellished by saplings

I see no materialities, there is only chatter.