Seasonal Works with Letters on Fire

The Nets Between Solstice & Equinox

T H E N E T S B E T W E E N S O L S T I C E & E Q U I N O X . . . golden tresses of the dead . . . Shakespeare, Sonnet 68 —& the wren can see us from its canister of loud joy but we cannot see it. Often a particle of chaos passes & we barely notice in the summer air. The baby is running; he clings to his cardboard cow. The debt ceiling opens like the Astrodome; Congress teeters, the right wing swells; the left wing withers till the body cannot fly. In the woods, the lichen falls quietly, half-algae, half-fungus like poetry. (Today they resemble that death-is-the-brotherof -beauty netting on the mouths of America’s secret army). Should every nature talk to each other? Shakespeare marvels at his friend’s wig, made from a dead person’s hair . . . Nerve’s work, where is thy energy? You’re tired, even at dawn. From the peep peep nppp, hops through fog’s wispy pre-writing in the oak. Clump-clump-clump. Your love is making breakfast by himself. For thou hast given us thy absence. —Why are you talking like that? —So i can escape from the net the net & dance with the dancing fleas 6 0 ...