After a more than generous run, The McGee-Cirimele Poet in Residence Program has shut down. A spell here, a spell there. Then the great matchstick of the northern-south, Nashville (!) Is there poetry there? Do they have Big ! Lots and 211?
A writing on that old stack of wood:
Isabell
That which exists through itself
is what is called the meaning.
- Creeley
Spray of town
a hack through blindness.
There is a wall I lean at
and it keeps my sound.
A deck its
smoke and crabsmell.
Bone flat harmonic
carapace,
brush mumble kenning.
House in it glass run drunk.
Sun badly collapsed.
Sand is coming off me slant
my paper exile
still contains unmeasured injuries.
What slipped keyhole,
collisions
bursting into event.
I enjoy cathedral when it
forms,
bell salts here interred.
Cooing impostor,
yard mourning, vibrating
air with throats.
Hello House.
Mid-heaven amid the isthmus.
Straight husk. Temple vim.
A dog's heart in me.
Earth church, all I want to
do today is
watch the ice break apart
in my lawn-chair biting
my hand.
Smells wake me.
Plank run low,
the work silent and still any
simple echo.
Adjusting iron skirts.
House is sad and never tired.
I am of a corner cathedral pushes
through,
salt making bones, sand breathing
morning
hides intuition.
Consoled on all sides.
House is a set
of lungs, with lungfish.
