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

whither & whether the withering weather

one must be careful in this landscape to shed cells

when artificial hills congeal, to leave

dust suspended by means of unmeasured wildness,


to let knowledge go. the hard edges of a township

metaphorically take over a people,

a dress rehearsal for a more muscular vista


which is to say blank. in record time,

shrines attach to new icons. now here is the cut-out lake,

all comical in pink buoys. a prancing cut-out horse


shows me the syntax. it starts with seduction—

birdness tussle. urgent spectrums await

harbored instants, mammal-like, unblinking


in the light of day. makes “me” feel “fake”

thinking before i feel. i “let” the trees grow.

but bricks change colors or the whole wall,


slightly or radically iridescent. in the state of quash,

first a mountain is confabulated. i seep

into the forgiving weather, carrying a dazed animal


from the book of scraps, demonstrate suitable myopia,

tarry in the watershed, a welling of absence at the synapse

of permeability & sting. what’s mine


belongs to eerie bridges. the extent of perception

one would be hardpressed to say, running away

emptily, outstretched hands singing impossibly


to particles, blindness stitching together stories.

what winter is supposed to be, marble & smiling.

from “ letter letters”