A few things have been gotten
            rid of. The sky seemed charred:
            ugly spheres floating about. A dog
            leaned against an oak tree when
            the eight-legged horse came down.
            It believed in nothing. His shiny moon
            pronounced resurrection slowly.
            He called ideas intricate totem animals.
            The wood was hard and went
            all the way through.

            *

            To be through a wood, the source
            annihilated what could have been.
            Showers shuddered, "could," one day,
            might get through. The door
            neither opened nor crumbled.
            I wasn't there but heard a sound.

            *

            Sleipnir doesn't loom. He is a magnet
            that refuses to hide, which they usually do
            in the hour of burned gleams,
            When the spouses just seem.
            There is nowhere, he said, for this.
            A rind from a discarded melon
            stands in the center of everything.
            I have lost my life Sleipnir.
            Do with it as you wish.

            *

            He wasn't sad. It just
            happened, like a corkscrew lodged
            in a throat that had come loose.
            There's nowhere I could have been.
            And he's been there, somehow
            chilled. Ingrained, almost.

            *

            The life meant so much, then the glass yarn
            Believed. If I'm in love I am free.
            The sea horses shed their husks
            and capture globules of what you think
            globules could be. Everything's
            wavy, your friend says with his eyes,
            smoky. Someone frees a worm, someone
            Gnashes his teeth in the taking away.



Copyright © James Grinwis, 2002.  All Rights Reserved.