this book

ice columns


ice columns build in
secret, under cover of
night—-where hard and
soft merge, thousands of
miles from where families of
mesas converge; between time-
smoothed tables, dragon-flies sew
their sighs. i stand apart as a singular
out-line, bending to the will of the wind,
watching my obsessions maturing. this book
cannot be its own source; every thing must come
from some thing: on this auto-mated path to death,
i am honored by the fiber-glass food-chain of my life.


face formation

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