Seasonal Works with Letters on Fire

Foggy Animist Morning in the Vineyard

F O G G Y A N I M I S T M O R N I N G I N T H E V I N E YA R D . . . this is not me; this is portable me. julian Assange —t t t t t the letters are lonely, they wait under the vines, their crucifix groups spread out from the eye . . . the grapes drop down from stem to node where roots meet the fleabane seed & fox meets the vole;— shadows wait under the stakes as anarchy waits in the novel or sex waits in college, a feeling individual letters have before a word is spelled—; middle of summer: t t t t ermites riddle the wood near houses with coded gates; the workers have been bused in at dawn. A man bends down to check a meter in the field, or, is that a heron— tHHHHe rows brighten in the sun as meaning presses to the back of the page, the space you make/unmake to eat, fly up, drop wings at some point, brainlight termite. Poet. 3 0 ...