February 2011

By boat to Seurasaari where
the small fish were called vendace.  
A man blew a horn of birchwood
toward the nightless sea.

Still voice. Fire that is no fire.
Ahead years unknown to be lived—



Bells from the tower in the all-at-once,...

On shanks’ mare Argyle talked to himself.
Alone, he’d carry on whole colloquies
en route to some poor corpse’s obsequies—
these dialogues, the way he kept his wits
about him, body and soul together,
fit for the wretched work of sin-eating.
Sometimes he counted words or...

The suite on the side
facing away from the sea
is the suite with the fireplace
and two plasma screen tvs.
Better luxury compensates
for lack of view. Before
the perpetual gas fire, stunned
as if into stone, entering

as you enter your Anne Brontë,
a world muted, chemically...