rewriting landscape.


Skip Fox


                   honeysuckle, sight scent and
                         touch, fingers eyes nose slipping
                       into oblivion of blossom,      and a taste
             of ozone . . . (way back, where yet the five senses
                       dance in a ring,      an inner chamber, half
                  filled with lake, of the diencephalon, before

       the screen goes blank . . .

                                       the approaching storm
                                                                            silence of
                                   & wind risen to whatever Earth
                                        when we listen,

                         All is inconstant, existence in
                                 drift, something like the remission
                                        of nothingness, not
                              quite, but as temporary as any
                                       mind you could posit,
                                               life you might

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there 2006, 2007