Meanwhile

I count
on the fringe,
the armored night,
the right shirt,
the reckless stain.
A drained look
from the barman.
I sense a shift
in the level white
of his eye. Grime
is a coat painted 
in duress. Fearing 
occasional thunder,
sloshing through 
the bathwater 
of a joyously
drunken voice,
its flailing soft
crust,
“Words without vision
are deprived of stability.”

Sand

His footing is light itself. A slim shepherd of wolves, his teeth are momentary lights that sting our eyes, excursions. His death rattle shapes the forest floor. A sudden hand splits timbers of oak. You are a worn-out film playing in my heart. When it is finally dark, the enchanted bodies begin to slip from between the cypress. I swell, bored with the same longing, the sun emerges as a short square. Shadows tilt, you linger just out of reach. A fountain gurgles in the square, lulling me to sleep. Our mornings are still secret, you greet my soul sending a rested wave. I could never turn outright cold, swathes of blood at night obscure my vision. Our boredom is a daughter of indiscretion, memory pleads at the same bronze gate. Trim down these clouds of dust, the air is still from now on. My eyes turn clear and mirrored at the foot of the spring
(After G. Ungarretti)

Siren of Atlantis

I've strayed too far off the block for mine own kind 
and writing is not necessarily editing right now if it's the amusement of disguise 
over disappearance. If it's become all about dressing well and getting back to gallerists while still in my plucked helmet storming about. Is it a generative loneliness? Like rebuilding my body within a passage of light? Is this the right key for the empty apartment? Jay is reading Valerie Larbaud in a tangle 
of light at springtime. Which specific title escapes my vision but 
the platinum tip of my tail is underwriting every emotive and syllabic outburst, 
every instance of enraged punctuation and jealousy over not sleeping over 
where there is no intended manger to begin with. Where I am to be aired out prior to introduction. Privy to his incredible feats of disappearance carried off 
in the alleyways of a Greenpoint night. I bow my staff upon a skinned knee. 
Happy to be a so-called song writer again, a little something coming in. 
Whisking it all up, draped in fat lines down a dark room, slamming shut
the so called atmosphere of music. 

Cedar Sigo is a poet and member of the Suquamish Nation. His most recent books are Saint of the Abyss from Spiral Editions and Occasional Objects, a book of collaborations written with Simon Wolf from Found Poem Press. Siren of Atlantis is forthcoming from Wave Books in April 2025. He lives in Lofall, Washington.