Intent on shells
she's a girl
where screech the gulls.

Age she kills
makes sandhills
breaks the walls.

the gilded or beguiled chic
draped on strings in light of day
collecting heat

To what, and what for?
To wit, and wit's end—
as sayings go, attention's spent
on lines
between lines
out of lines of best fit:
a new line of credit to pay the mind's rent

If what I'm feeling abides by a virtue
Then I'm in tune

We're at the scene of a crime gathering clues
So get a clue

a ping before the pang,
now the server knows my name—
i sang lines of lang syne
in the digital age.

All mountain chains are
their origins in movements

Now North America has movement
that has
ridges, the cordilleras

simple as this makes it sound,
there is more to it:
a crumbling effect

America was drifting
against the Old World,
some Atlantic detritus
that came away
with parted company,
its origins in the encounter

poetry is dead
as the air
it walks on --
good as dead
to compost heaps;
the heat reserved in sunlit stone