What seldom question what we see

who considers the gaps in between

those tucked-in places our field of vision

crudely splattered forced into display :

this is another was to say “landscape.”


sable palms frame a green composition

really a myriad-pocketed schema

which within its pockets the wind dies

murdered by us for whom nothing but

the margins seem to sway to create

an event in time which only happened

to this viewer myself, say,

at the parking lot of my girl’s kindergarten.


Both composer and spectator

make-up any given moment alive

Both victim and perpetrator–

actor-spectator—both seer and non-seen


Now back to my green-framed landscape

where the mundane miracle occurs

witnessed but dreamt

apportioned & man-made

the sum of an heir to a savanna simian

deluded into seeing clear to the horizon

wherein his safety lies he thinks,

a deliverance

but really where he’s collected a whiff

of his own demise, a simple death

achromatic & chicken-kicking

hung upside-down on a wire bled white

pockmarked & plucked–rubbed out



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