Trilobite is an arthropodologist's delight:
many bizarre creatures; no two alike.

three poems

Barbara Tomash

Of Perspective

the sensation of tumbling of

being flung and pushed out of

control pines and rocks shift the

mountain recomposes itself the

sea is pieced of inexactness

pulverized abalone oyster

mussel the spines of fish the

housings of barnacles in the

foam at the end of the ocean a

hazy outline white mountains

white clouds which white is

which sand in my mouth

sticking to my lips and teeth my

arms fingers spread wide long

bones reaching into the

sensation of tumbling the

mountain flung inexplicable

Of Pattern

it is a time of extreme cold sap

descended to tree roots leaves

all fallen birds flown to the left

and right margins oblique lines

sweeping upward it is a time

caught between the soft om of

clearing her throat and silence

it’s time to make small stitches

along an edge one person can

walk only when becoming air

Of Direction

white roots nets strung with

eyeless tubers sewing together

the ball of earth black veins

exploding reached inside rock

we grow offshoots double

rapidly a live trunk in mist after

burning trees standing in water a

foot up their trunks repeated in

mud pines edge toward their

own solitary completion which

way where the old houses are

bordered by burned grass and

every crumbling form is

outlined in red blue and gold

and the delicate blur of pigeon

wings some skimming the

surface of the bricks some

angling upwards