Michael Sikkema
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Storms are Vertical Here the Earth is a Bowl



So God is a radio with legs. Had

torn back a section of curtain revealing

more curtain. Where were the beasts we

would love? Where was our speaking light?

Thinking of the ear as a circuit then

the circus thrives on wonder

which cannot thrive. When the fungus was seeing through you,

you found the nearest trees.

That country taken back

from the water. You fell asleep

before you reached the sea-wall.





The table is all sex with knives––you stack

a metaphor on, thought you’d find it just

then. You watched the plates, forks, tea

cups, the wine bottle ringing themselves on

the tabletop. In bright orange red tones

cooled by air.




So close to sleep you thought you could fly

until you were four.

The sun overhead not round, not a disc,

you feel a column reaching up out of your


I saw you in all the windows at once and then

in one after another when you woke still dry

in your rain clothes.





Since there is no war here except

in these head-frames.

Containment become paradigm––the crisis

as we ask for stronger poison––a way

across and back across.

So many voices with your ear to the intake

valve to the tea pot to the architecture to

the birches to the perineum to the corti.

With sound balance, you made a whole

note, the wind in a barrel.





Is there one truly human act left? The boy

waddles into the kitchen with shit in his pants.

When you traced the photo

of the spiral galaxy, tiny

limestone crystals in your

ear were pulled by gravity,

the motion of the head.

You can bring back a constellation

in different light––a moment when each

object’s voice was clear. Mostly you heard

the teapot and awning.

Hills circle the wreck you know is moving.

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