Chris Robideaux

What plagues the men of plagues
And wars, when the heat of the human
Grows beyond measure?
I have a hound who knows the sound
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Panama has lovely butterflies
And butterflies have lovely Panama;
Like the Blue-Patched Eyed-Metalmark
And the Three-Banded Crescent
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What pierce this firmament, O mated with the dust?
Gladness gave his rags back to me,
And my skin easy flows in them, then jars
(Though buzzers be less fatal legion by far
...

Walking compassion’s razor edge – the mystery is getting slippery – my wet trees are heavy, too.

Between the ends and the beginnings, power crouches behind the
Nursemaid of violence and replays its only tune.
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Something in the way the furrowed canyon lumbers gently down to kiss the foamy waters,

That surge Pacific-ward beside the oleander, honeysuckle and sour grass that gave me eyes outside forgetting, and tendrils atop the sepulchral night;
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A bird rushes by the window:
Quick shadow through the room.
In the dream it was crucial that we chose
Just the right products from the
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