Then I went along the Amur River,
chert in my elbow, a grasshopper ligature bucking the end
of my tongue.
blackened yellow spiders, boomboxing forms, big as zucchini, small dogs,
Theron Fleury on a kicked in night, squinting along;
behind my calves, ants hatted with three wings.
I went ahead on a Levallois knee.
I portaged the summa painting of religion, 4X6 glass,
through it September 2, 2005, afternoon, rain prinking down in Loss
Creek, alder leaves in stopped, oil-coloured water, stones with winter
like a boat tied up in them.
Amur River, molting eye, saying itself into
the mouth of reindeer moss, moths and bats lariating in ash.
I was walking, hiding the mind’s kissable sword.
I was thinking of al-Ghazali, so what, blood pressing the nail,
I was walking.
I let Pico della Mirandola slow his limbs humming
through my hair, why not, I knew where the elands bunched,
how they went through the rain crevice.
I knew their smoke and what to say.
Right along the Amur River, hoveling in the sword.
And then from the beach I slid into the glacier-eyed