A work of art is a world of signs, at least to the poet’s nursery
bookshelf sheltered behind the artist’s ear. I recall each little
motto howling its ins and outs to those of us who might as
well be on the moon illu illu illu

                                     _

Antique Mirror
Etce ce Tera. Forgotn quiet all. Nobody grows old and crafty
here in middle air together. Long ago ice wraith foliage.
I had such fren

                                     _

Our mother of puddled images fading away into deep blue polymer.
Seaweed, nets, shells, fish, feathers