Peter Richards


from Helsinki


When I came to it was a place impossible

to distinguish from the place in my sleep

and so severe was the damage to my sleep

I could see a great mistake had been made

to have slept there at all and how damaging

it was to the hand in the dream should I lay

in that hand and should the shingles believe

me as though all learning truly is recollection

a sash working a tournament trails through

one cataracting room to the next for there are

no paintings really only static land-based projects

towing executive hair and fully robed statues

preexisting their quarries and spending more

and more time alone in the villa I can barely

recall this honeycombed ridge what was it doing

mouthing characteristics of its own terrain

inklings my taste had gotten used to full-truck

sunsets oars made of thickening glass and sudden

postponements the sensation being featly carried

inside a whitened swat of applauding spheres

voyages where each man can bring his own hug

the ditch where I saw a mainsail completing itself


© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review