Orb Weavers

Counterpart

Sensed Through Opaque Windows

Harmonic Points
One metre is one ten-millionth of the distance from the Equator to the North Pole through ParisThis is a useful measurementThen there is the truth of ratios:a bird’s wingspan to the room, the opening in the windowit entered through, then lost.The weight of a pair of handstrying to free it. There is the lonely side of dialogue. The pieces of the map and the groundcovered by your body as you fall.The cleverness you trail like a comet. The circus and the flea. Edson’s ambushed stone to the size of his mother’s love. Some giddy slippage, to all the harmonic point

Winged Things
Once you give something wings you have to treat it differentlybecause the bones are hollow-just the heat coming off your neck up close might cause an updraft that could send it higherthan the sound of our breathing, past the fist-shaped clouds and their drizzle past the pelicans and starsThere was an address written on her palmthat’s been smeared by yoursShe can’t remember giving you the keysYou can’t remember locking up the houseEvery other word here is the possessive you both lackeach day is its’ consequenceYou’re driving through the night with her headon your thigh

Vasilissa's Doll
I am the house and the hut with chicken legs that turns to face us. I am the sea cave speared through by the foundations of skyscrapers. The glitter and shine of bare bones, the scaffolding and crane, the tented buildings, the outskirts of the forest with trees bent like ribs. Strange enough without shadows. Here I am, one hand in yours, the other searching for skeleton keys in the soft cloth of her unwritten pocket. Private finger cave of receipts, crumbs, stones and small change. Here is the dull-eyed doll who comes to life at night, feeding my cheeks of milk and blood as my hair grows down to my waist. I