ANSWERS TO THE RIDDLES Thread: as you sew using the needle, its thread gets shorter. Dew: grass that is heavy with morning dew bends over. Tinnitus: when sleep rubs against thought the head buzzes. Leaf: when a leaf flies away, it never comes back. Clock: a clock tells the time although it has never been to school. Wheel: the wheels never catch up although they keep chasing each other. Food: when you eat you never miss your mouth even in the dark. Horse: the black horse was consuming a version of itself, the green horse. Bird: birds were the pipes through which this music was conveyed. Willow: a willow tries on a new dress once a year. Grave: nothing is as long as the grave, even though you could leap over it. Words: even after we hook them into sentences, some fall away. Self: my bones are covered in ghost.   THE HISTORY POEM History a gradual erasure of anything that does not make sense we are angels of history faces pointed into the rear-view mirror sky: puzzling remains of a history too big to see rain is the discourse of history history is a novel that does not have a last page nothing more passive than history answer the history according to its process in the forest a tree’s sense of history is persuasive the world is a sponge for history outside history there are no moments history is a secret device for inhabiting clouds ah sunflowers, weary of history under pressure of history the stones band together freedom: the length of the rope that connects us to the end of history DREAM POEM No road is as long as a dream or as short as a memory news has a concession-stand in the pavilion of dreams the reason we don’t remember most dreams is most are untranslatable meaning is just the surface of the dream the medium of the dream is time we recount dreams in the present because we can’t catch them raise up each dream against capital we are dreamed by the edge of thought sometimes I can dream up to about one star in Halliwell a closed book recounts the dream of a windblown tree we have to pay for dream-crimes in daylight when I cycle to work everything else follows as a recurrent dream when each thought has passed a brain the frightening dreams resume flawed lives are perfected in dreams but perfect lives are subject to flaw poetry forms the kind of pattern historians dream about how come these dreams hold in place we accrue through life a charge of dream within the context of the dream I am pleased with this thought