POEMS
Inkhead — to caption a blur
You are what a place means
to say about itself, if land
could speak as clear as, say,
color is translatable.
You are like all seeds — silent.
Something sorely troubled
my speech. The frame of its face
is still here, but the grit is gone,
what keeps us apart, a heaven
we could taste. Red
couldn’t begin to explain
what blue is doing
in its veins. My face,
another story. We keep company
with roads that go nowhere,
or nowhere we ever
intended to go.