Poetry

I troubled the man almost all week

because I thought we were becoming
The souls from which
atmosphere is fashioned appeared
Speaks to us of less than the thing

The sky warms to a doubled earth...
When we close our eyes it is there you see

The field is the field and the trees are trees
Odense is in Denmark but where are we now?
In a flying sleigh en route to Odessa.
The Tiasquam crawls across the flats

like a student’s handwriting,