I do not change existing shapes, but I arrange themdifferently, use them in new combinations. T.Lowe
Six feet across
these only white feathers could drift into my kitchen, fall
arranged near the stove,
forever reachable, but each in one part.
The round hoop frame holds clouds,
breathes in my white bones.
All these are pieces looking through the glass
of windows. All looking out
is recorded here in feathers, straw, and wood of thin, airyspaces.
Lowe would have arranged me beneath this hanging basket,
remarking the portraits of the seventeenth-century Spanishangels
that float one floor above it.
Its pencils of driftwood hanging from bits of leather areopenings:
giving keys to the cat-sitter, yellow leaves passing thewindow,
sunlight on the floor of my bedroom.
Standing empty
native costumes, protective pipes and stones,
rest their necks to the basket that pieces legends and breath,
fingers and waters.
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