“I often think of the space of a page as a stage, with words, letters, syllable characters moving across.”

I’m a Keats bot
so are you

Winter. Late January
afternoon. Night falls fast.
You think I should know this

The problem of evil
can be brought home
in a classroom 

One day Mz N meets a woman
slightly horsefaced
hair a tangle

You are in bed
and Antigone’s dead
once again though offstage

The stream is frozen
except what’s flowing
below what’s frozen.

There’s a woman
walks through me
sits at the table

& the moon and all stars
you can name
are fantastic!

a “beautiful day”
nothing happened
and nothing was going to happen

Ferns here ferns there
I dream of my newest friends                         
who soon subside   

That man over there
looking sidelong
as you sidelong

The merchant republics are done
as is the nun
who forbade us aged five to say

Curmudgeon
pigeon,
iridescence