they come down with a bad case of poetry

i cannot scan nor ken

what lines your mind

grown so faint it could have been

scratched by birds on sandstone

or drawn with a stick in the heart

no wonder she said you cannot fathom

the sky humming with molecules

the aspirations of chloroform

the hammering of spiders

the whole creation’s become

nothing but leftovers

from a castiron pan

as for me (meaning me, poet or her,

self, muse) what is to

become of the light

markings on the skin

the little pile of memories

moraines you say left from the ice-age

migraines in the mind of god

our thoughts small pebbles

in a passing glacier