The room where I'm
kept is all        glass.
The map   I inhabit
thin        my walls I


coat in dust    from
shells             that I've razed
myself.      The nacre wearies
me.               I lack attention


too often turn to
the river below.          I
          hope it will light
blue and shine  brazen


brash attention seeking send
message scrawling.  For this
I clear a wall.
                        I keep a math.







 Something inside this house
won't hum.          The sound
of waves is gone
               the weight of them


thrown down  dragged back
still some rasping       sound
slips               a gathering in
thin groves of bare


trees   holding the heavy
hurl of wind            from
my house         thin walls.
I wonder what will


break me?    Why won't
it come in                this
wind so invisible    still
lingering still lulling me





 But light is not

                     wind. I sent it.

And the sky went

gray               lost texture. I

tried to still it.

        Then smoke. Then cars.

Then diagonally.        A gull

cutting across and screaming





 Let me live--
           where cove ice is
coming fast   where gulls
cinch invisible lines  rise


on updrafts.        What grace
is that?       To drop
shelled sustenance lower to
feast?            My dream was


me               a boat again
a middle and--
               all night the ice
got thick surrounding me


I stayed.     Wind harried
me hard       shaking I
was into and      against
the shape of     myself.