December 18, 2008


The multiple response
of a person is people.
As in: trees people
when we pass with eyes closed
underneath their voyages.
I nod at a leaf. It nods back.
Neither of us anticipates the branch.
I wonder what time loves.
Surely, not a poem.

—Scott Glassman

Posted by dwaber at 07:24 PM

December 17, 2008

The Poem

is of itself

is. as we are

coming. going

mists. upon

ifs. the human


—Scott Glassman

Posted by dwaber at 07:23 PM

December 16, 2008


you are nobody. i hear you
as such. knocking

at the rest of me. i wish
were there

—Scott Glassman

Posted by dwaber at 02:42 PM

December 15, 2008

Over Nazareth Bay

Inscribed in the strange
dialect of butterflies,
there are furrows
that open and close,
a flurry of lines
folding into shadow
before it can be
called shadow,
the incipience
of curves around
the improbable fact
that clouds here
are nothing but
soft crucibles.

If there is an eclipse,
I know that night
will never be different again.
What choice have I
but to dip sharply, pitch upward
like some small music box
of invisible muscle
saturating each
human glance
with violet—

I know what happens
if I never land.
You will motion
me closer and I,
off-balance, brightly
inflected with edges,
will obey.

—Scott Glassman

Posted by dwaber at 01:43 PM