Three excerpts from my M.A. thesis, Dreaming the Boundary (1988).

Fifteen Answers

 

Then, after work on the first

illusory cracking towers began, six

teams escaped by sea. Here we could

safely count, finding only

two webbed fingers and a crooked

thumb--plus one withered earlobe.

It came to seem that our graying

skin must have been rolled out from

the same dye lot as the cool

smudged sky. Possibly,

no losers would have

signed on for our trip. But why

tempt fate in these late dioxide days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fry the Ceiling

 

Choice loop of

frozen images. Hit

via clear blue

flame. Low strobe

off high university

moon will be

no possible measure

oh, not over

stretches of pink

terrazzo. Statue fear.

 

 

 

The Later Fog

 

A fork explodes. Plastic

tines lie scattered on

a slice of roast. The youngest

hike uphill, pausing to

pry wet woodchips off

the path. From seven

mountains up, the view

is unimpeded. It isn't

long before new trees become

less strange. The thinner

air can change most appetites.

 
 


Last updated: April 22, 1997


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