Sean Patrick Hill

Point Cloud

I lower the blinds,
against the ring of the blue anvil.

I am waiting
for a voice to fill the crib and stir
the flecking rust.

I’ve found a poem
is a boulder in a sorghum field;

its shadow,
the sky’s minor splinters,

the circumference of mindless wind.

Has the evening been adequately ciphered?
Is the plateau really blue?

If nothing else,
do witness trees code their coordinates,

as if to map
plain but forgettable things?


Here is ample space to consider the wreckage of the sun. Not the numbers of angels marooned on the pin but the fact they all argue at once. Little eyebrights of blood, some dark fiscal magic followed closely after breath. Like plum stones caught in a gunnysack of something less than zero, the sky jimmies windows through which we imagine bold solutions to the offices of our small lives. Consider the falling asphodel, the hushed umbrage that smothers even the dust of our names. Its gasp, the very music we wish to make.


One bears birds, the other
a thistle.

One pillows, one swallows their blossom.

The singing is the least avowal.

The man weeps and marries the same girl
he kicks.

Horses, he brays. She loves horses.