Camille Martin

trace reports

i

flashes of washed light some days,

others, slippered beliefs. a nether

being of intricate garlands

returns to the familiar

dream district “here,” whose

blank staggered ends & bends

ravel or unravel—

nothing to swear by

by open candle,

embouchure emboldened & contested

in a hobby of trial balloons,

feet melting into earth

hunch by hourly hunch

ii

until orange begets pomegranate until

incumbent matter and shadow

confabulate the letter

“yes” until festooned freedom

or some other calumny blurs

the boundaries of the very edge-happy

apollonian until one carries one’s own sinews and

sutures split bones and spilt marrow across

the dividing line looming unexpected

until tone deaf the clocked republic redundantly

delivers its fractaled eulogies until

it loves its enemies until that love

delves speaks twists

iii

indigenous to metropole,

rotary biceps dividends

blast strewn frets,

bendable frames, & sailable grids

while one swaggering nobody

at duty-free & episodic midnight

hews zero stopgap disguises

from obsessive missteps

within a rolling scenery that sounds

pervasive busy signals,

while nobody’s flock at four o’clock

among watery hills

dips & rises

iv

sometimes quicksand’s verve

persuades me that i am awake

coalescing in the best of all possible

tiny whirls in a big spin

inscribed with smoke,

once a boon, now lucky

to escape an ordinary shed burning

in the trickle of dusk.

if i am the violet banner of my body

I am also possibly

an involuntary wash of thought

redeeming bewilderment,

swirling in fake colors,

an accidental personality

caught in headlights

v

portable storm trinkets

like scattered hints

in a fundamental canyon

seen softly through glass

or emulsified sleep,

home a direction on the road

a long way down way

down to a practical

coronation though grieved

in one’s idyllic flotilla aggregates,

iridescent fauna

persuaded to wait

in corners that branch out in the name

of indigo wings winging

all day long

vi

words rumble & float

wrapping around hills

like social pressure

dormant within their ignorance

happy & satisfied coming to a standstill

rehearsing the genesis of every particle

& twisting ordinary bus stops into pellucid theology,

heartbeats & mythologies in the making

imprisoning the things

destruction takes kindly to

before secession starts halving space

one tabernacle per joust

have we invented the anvil yet

does it work