The Foist Grid


Beneath the hour, the door on sprung
hinges. The pendulum a fanning of cards behind which

the blank is switched and what inhabits it
switched. What, to appear in the space of its

expelling. A crow on the highest roof’s highest jutting pipe.

Someone had to go into the earth for this to happen and that
behind it, someone was under the earth and the dirt

was in someone and the hole where the dirt was.

And the blood of the land soaked up. The bad cocoons drowned in alcohol.
The worm hole and the catacombs scanned
for someone surfacing. The sun

has been busy in its burning. A shadow to its wall
like a film.

The square days exchange the blank between them
and pass beyond then. A matrix. An inheritance

of blank, the others looking
at their watches and the hours with their doors to enter.
The others breathing it in clear

and exhaling it fogged.
Oh how the blood peeled away and behind it what, a space
in which to shift something

new? The groaners press the panel in the tree trunk then
and disappear. The others approached removing their helmets.

And beneath their helmets, a wide flat rock
and beyond the rock, the sea.



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