Before the dawn starts stirring far away,

unravelling young clouds and lilac-gold,

I will sit with you awhile.


wet with dreaming,

will talk slowly.

This is ordinary magic,

a transubstantiation,

lead becoming silver becoming light.

The ground receives you like a sister—

there will be roots

that vein down from the spine,

a roll of bones to basalt,

a sacrifice of sight.

You will have rest from breath,

and then, only two memories—

that you once thought yourself a living thing,

and now

you are in the breasts of lorikeets,

the bleed of lilly pillies in the summer,

the whistle of black soil

after rain.  




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Bishop Trees

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She wants to ask the trees some questions, a solemn synod grown anciently deaf.
Poultry Shears

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Metal handles, large, the scissor for a thigh or a wing, when feathers flew up, sank like wishes, settled on the dirty floors.
The Lost Works of Pablo Müller-Wessely

The Lost Works of Pablo Müller-Wessely

Rumors of the existence of a substantial corpus in the poet’s native German, however uncanny, are what motivated an Andean expedition of our own.


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