some days all language seems lost
stitching the notes,       cracking spines
looking for the rumble in the chest
quiver in the pen press, time’s
truant with the company I keep

three seats over, French
three speakers fixed, Cooke
smoke signals rise from the table
a pot of dragon well
                       singing Whalen
                       shouting Mayer
perching with one speech
trails from midnite, the first
lighted hill is unchanging
step left, one, two. step
longing to get the vacancy off
the page, as yesterday’s hour
granted. step right, one

the fog is determined today
dark sighted,    the e as in Edward
                         the c as in Charles, a subtle height
lowered from stone to stone, allow me
time travel, dear. shimmer
courting spangle, the only light
retrieved is white ascending
from this cup, still gusts slow
to rise with them. it is not cold
in a field of graves given
the company I keep, step left. step