:::::::::::::::::::::::::CAMILLE MARTIN

shifting scene

the self quietly patches together its narratives and,

like a horoscopist, melts into its stories within sight

of “i am.” elsewhere within its house, it eavesdrops


on dutiful reports swept along by undercurrents.

its prattle within its borders, disguised

from its upper story, humming and losing itself,


it minds its workshop, its setup, that control center

of shadowboxing in a ghost town

and teeming translations that open the door


to the “no” of truth. the self in its haze

is well-meaning in its consciousness

of the beginnings of a protagonist in the author


and of the sun within its naked eye, of torrents

of sediment falling homeward, and of moments swarming

with nebulous runes. it gambles with fountains, heatwaves,


and dissolution. and when a cold snap looms

with its tedious test patterns, the self plays

dumb with the body’s borders and masks


and fabricates its grammar in the dark.

then it supposes wild and artificial horizons,

borders linked to wells, the stuff of color oozing


from a rock, losses and oddities throwing off

their disguises after “once upon a time,”

and the beginning and end of artless fictions.


the tumult besieging the eyes to no purpose

gives rise to the self, which forages

for a reading. for it is inscribed in desire


to call the quarries in question with its words, to evolve

an instant from its substance, and to embody

within its flickering senses an awakened plot.