Wednesday, February 14, 2007

"bvt to nyc. one fourteen oh seven."

mountains curving like Joshua
Bell's violin, without corners
or points, a perfect 8,
vibrations to ∞, only with
a healthier waist line

a filter of trees
rags amputated from the orb
a thin blanket of steam
from every field in the golden glaze

winter's ivy,
strong yet unadorned,
berries frozen and
blackened, reach straight
up, curled arms
to anchor at every
present juncture.

vines think
they're powerlines.


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