looking at my feet

certain moments scatter

more densely than other phenomena

scrapping

We are warmer inside, far from the empty shells in piles outside. Maybe because certain things cannot be so easily carved out hollow - bones, timbers. The skeletons of spaces, discarded but memorialized in monolithic stacks, quietly invade emptiness as we sanctify garbage, waste. This is the salvage yard.

walking up

you may approach us and realize

that sticking out your neck

won't get you any closer

portra 400 nc f5.6 1/125s

some treetops

we find these empty things

magnificent

portra 400 nc f11 1/250s

belchertown

f8 1/250s

270 pleasant street, a love poem

(or Jonah and the wail)


between blue and white, you crack like an oyster,
spilling grit from your lips
all washed up and water-logged
salt slips and licks at your black, black lips turned
down, meeting ground level at the steps

there is a man in a parka, and he is speaking to you
he must be mistaken, poor guy,
as he crouches at your lips and
screams as he rips
his things

and I believe now, more than ever, you are a fish -
a whale -
Jonah and the wail you provoke,
sitting limply, simply
with his things strewn about

but oh!
I think he sees me,
seizes me,
across the asphalt seas that churn the snow
he sees me in the window
in the space below
the white bricks sagging,
slow, slow

Jonah, I see - in his black dirty parka
things falling in the sea
he plucks from your steps
a black dirty key
and finally, lifelessly, after looking at me
allows himself into your
oyster debris