For the leatherback turtle and Far Eastern curlew,
the clamour to reproduce begets rituals of distance, deposits
of magnetite in receptor cells, or blue-lit electrons made
dervishes by the magnetic field, stitching their seasonal
journeys across the map like ink-dark strands of brocade.
They arrive at their own birth places, secure a craggy
vantage in a crowded rookery, or plough flippers through
scare-yielding dunes, then re-enact the choreography of new life.
The magnetic north pole was an atoll of attraction warbling
off coastal Canada. It began burbling toward Russia a century
ago and is now swollen into a full-throated march, in thrall to
the churn of iron in the underworld, the collusion of ions at
the curtain of space. Some doyens predict our compasses will
soon yaw south–the magnetic poles reverse every 400,000 years.
In the vortex of norths–magnetic, geographic, geodetic,
astronomical, grid–not to speak of the moral compass– there
are so many ways to lose your bearings, to disconnect. There
is no internet, no correcting satellite, for leatherback turtles
and the Far Eastern curlew, yet the dance continues.
my friend didn’t know the one tree in his backyard was a mulberry still, there are those who see trees as only a green thing that stands in the way Blake wrote in seventeen ninety-nine this week I listened to the sound of wings fluttering to silence on…
Even though it's overcast I spend my day taking photos of clouds while I know it's been done before and that this suggests a failure of imagination on my part I can't help thinking of each cloud as unique as I'm re-documenting the heavens I shift…
Long before it was a lunar crater, she was a woman made of flesh and blood, a learned philosopher and great astronomer whose skin was torn off by a Christian mob. They stripped, minced her with tiles; set her alight and dragged her sorry heap through…