Ian van Wye

He is Blot



it is a name



and down the street



he walks with



his name to a



house of timber



frame with a door



of mirrored glass



that he raps.



The quavering pane



buzzes Blot’s reflected



edges turning



temporarily to mud.



Highest definition



of self then resurrected



an aquiline vision comes



twinkling out of the



stiff staring well at



the front of the house



by the corded bell



he didn’t notice.



His body is many



predated little creatures



he tracks—each



he knows and smiles at



from flight high



over this mirror



his empyrean head



lofts always over



every mirror welling



like quicksilver kettle



holes one after another



sending back Blot



tilting his shades



or Frenching a smoke



or Blot naked



admiring the quilled



vasculature of his



mammalian wings.



The bird of prey



surveying its own



body is the child



Moses fondling rushes



tufting by the bend



awaiting the one



who will take to him



the architect’s own concept



and relish the saw work



the sanding and the



double coat. Blot



craves only an eye



a Cyclops all head



and no body. The



mirror swings suddenly



inward and the



frame blinks a black



lid ruptured by



a silver shooting



pit bull gnashing



artifice to spark



Blot hauled like metal



hanging from a bus’s



underside to the curb



and left possumed in



the dark rush of cars



no taller than bolted



hubs inch-near



in passing

On this day of our choice



we have collected



at forests like



some insect



varietals



beetling their way



to the heart of



the copse. We have



coalesced for



the moment as



dewdrops do



bivouac in the



abdomen of leaves



pooling tensility



against atomizing



sun or its reflection



sprung from mica



pieces studding



the sharp loam.



The tenderfooted



will wince



the shod shall



advance this day



of our choice when



we pass separate



through the wood



to track in packs



paths whose blaze



is merely what



we toss ahead.



All hopes into



mouths of our



beer cans are fed



crumpled jettisoned



and come upon



twenty yards



down the trail



as though left



to augur for



us there. But



no other has



before stood



here with legs



spread open as



a pair of shears



pin-stuck in the



soil like sign



of a miracle.



Here the trees



are deplumed



limbs mangled



and gray like



stone jali hiding



others gone other



ways this day



of our choosing



foreshortened to



evening already.



No two paths



cross and were



they to they



might as wires



sparking this



night of our



choosing to fire



but uncovering



a charcoal plain



across which we



might see one



another again.