Plato Dreamed by Matthew James Babcock before he died that his soul assumed the supple form of a swan as nimble as an impulse, darting through trees, so swift and subtle no crafty Greek fowler could bag or wing him with whistling sling or glittering crossbow bolt. Is it heaven never to be netted? What lyrical recitation of your sleek evasions will absorb you into dialogues with thunder in the clouds? I’m close to believing a skipping movie projector will cast my death dream on laundered bedsheets rippling on a slack line behind a gaunt ranch house under the lavender skies of an austere summer fanned with the charred scent of hot tar and burning weeds: the scene where I return as the giant tortoise, over one hundred fifty years old, at the tourist trap in South Dakota where we stopped early in the bold prologue to our history when our small children still thrilled at the myths I breathed, and my routine philosophies roused in them the most transcendent teaching, the lowest limbs of their happiness too high for my reaching.
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Idahoan. Writer. Failed breakdancer.
Books: Points of Reference (Folded Word); Strange Terrain (Mad Hat); Heterodoxologies (Educe Press); Four Tales of Troubled Love (Harvard Square Editions); Future Perfect (forthcoming, Engine Books, 2022); Hidden Motion (forthcoming, Finishing Line Press, 2022).
Awards: Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry ($5,000); Juxtaprose Poetry ($500); Lucidity Magazine Poetry ($1.00).