Your staggered lenses, trained on an empty track,
recorded what straggled into view
and out again, a dust cloud and a leaning pack

Here are the snapshots from Horor Vacui

That’s me jumping off a cliff! 
That’s me throwing a lit match in a forest of drought! 

and I would lean in close and tell you that John Wick kills women like
he’s read feminist theory

After the family surgeon has severed my hand and wrist from the forearm. 
And I have carefully washed the separated hand with the connected hand. 
And done its fingernails, and put a drop of perfume at the pulse of the wrist. 

In the hollow provided he beaches his canoe, fastens it to a willow, then walks into the village. He finds there a classmate from his old alma mater, goes out drinking, comes back late.

The German fellow comes when I least suspect him. He appears hanging around. He walks down my chimney, settles on a footstool, talks about the weather.

I turn to enter, turning from those frozen
Sunfields, when I see the rage of flakes,
Diminished into shaves of gold, and streaming

Aloof, Tom planted the Garden.
Peas spring up there, he ordered;
tiny green arcs cracked the soil.

Mealtimes are reminders, says Tom,
of a beautiful marriage
between the organic and the mineral.

Tom peers from his tent.
The enemy is barely visible.