Michael Speier Poems

and, wild-swans the morning
at bewley's flurries
yet tea in our words
yet light in the bag
...

WHY EXACTLY ONE SLEEPS we would like to know
why exactly is data ever more often stowed away in clouds
& we in the wadded vacuum of an airport waiting room
why exactly berlin on the horizon just now
...

just thee to compare
to this summer day—
at whose end we stand
and look out to the sea
...

the century of clouds, are you sure?
their surfaces as enigmatic
as their tactical ploys against centrifugal forces
unhurried shift of time and potential
...

found ourselves on the back of the whale
later unquiet the mastiff's
tail strikes the kitchen table
...

fine brushwork: january morning with drizzle,
one's shoes aquariums, pupil-dilations, cycling ladies
blossom (do vermeer's girls look like this?), a yellow
in the 17th century's debt, specific hue of green
...

maybe the wind maybe nothing at all
in the deep wicker chairs
of this star
we've now arrived
...