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PAGESLEIPNIR AND THE KINDRED SPIRITS
A few things have been gotten
rid of. The sky seemed charred:
ugly spheres floating about. A dog
leaned against an oak tree when
the eight-legged horse came down.
It believed in nothing. His shiny moon
pronounced resurrection slowly.
He called ideas intricate totem animals.
The wood was hard and went
all the way through.*
To be through a wood, the source
annihilated what could have been.
Showers shuddered, "could," one day,
might get through. The door
neither opened nor crumbled.
I wasn't there but heard a sound.*
Sleipnir doesn't loom. He is a magnet
that refuses to hide, which they usually do
in the hour of burned gleams,
When the spouses just seem.
There is nowhere, he said, for this.
A rind from a discarded melon
stands in the center of everything.
I have lost my life Sleipnir.
Do with it as you wish.*
He wasn't sad. It just
happened, like a corkscrew lodged
in a throat that had come loose.
There's nowhere I could have been.
And he's been there, somehow
chilled. Ingrained, almost.*
The life meant so much, then the glass yarn
Believed. If I'm in love I am free.
The sea horses shed their husks
and capture globules of what you think
globules could be. Everything's
wavy, your friend says with his eyes,
smoky. Someone frees a worm, someone
Gnashes his teeth in the taking away.