Is the conclusion, he asked, the road forced by concubines from exact meters of strategy? Surely the trees are hinged to no definite purpose or surface. Yet now a wonder would shoot up, all one hue, and virtues would jostle each other to get a view of nothing— the crowded house, two faces glued fast to the mirror, corners and the bustling forest ever preparing, ever menacing its own shape with a shadow of the evil defenses gotten up and in fact already exhausted in some void of darkness, some kingdom he knew the earth could not even bother to avoid if the minutes arranged and divine lettermen with smiling cries were to come in the evening of administration and night which no cure, no bird ever more compulsory, no subject apparently intent on its heart’s own demon would forestall even if the truths she told of were now being seriously lit, one by one, in the hushed and fast darkening room.
—John Ashberry -from ‘The Young Son’ in Some Trees
Having decided never to be permeable,
separately and young, living
in something more silent.
Not the wind
I hear from inside my hat, and not the steps
I’m taking, nor their sounds,
tearing and clotting on my usual walk,
until finally, stirring upwards, covered in snow or mist or
whichever demonstration of matter
today has presented, he disappears, lit clouds or dust.
He’s bound to if this continues,
that much is clear, and separating further,
so will the sound, the snow,
now a scene.
Becoming a scene, or at least becoming descriptive, and truer, perhaps,
because such simple words are fat enough, titles,
covering the trees and the ground. Fat enough
to have waste and to overlap with themselves and their reference, like the whistling outside
my hat. And there will be a point when, continuing further still, it will make
sense to him to assert the same about the stars,
silently becoming livid, their parts exposed,
and I burn up.
All I could care about was your hand touching me.
The sound and the pressure were the same,
in my car, in the unplowed parking lot, evenly lit, and as such,
shouldn’t be so difficult to reproduce.
Maybe not great for art.
Latching the door, missing the way cold wears on you,
how you swivel your body against the wind,
trying to see through it, towards the fluttering, tossed-about leaf,
like paper being burned, curled and small and weak,
resisting becoming so.
How am I to present this? The perfect
shapes are too small, their meaning always blurred,
whether closer or further back, never
an army. The truer moment,
the one I want to hold on to, encased in real silence,
as he is now, walking,
furious at the waning light which keeps the colors
perfect every single hour, on the trees and on the ground, is
between him and them and tomorrow
I’ll have to write something new.
So, settling on this imperfect matter as ideal, always blurred, but
embracing it, he sets about inserting it, providing
a lip to catch all the blood.
We weren’t each other’s audience that night, but, just as the
evenly spaced halogen suggested, and the polystyrene
melting on your big hat, your hair
getting caught in our mouths when kissing, your
wearing too much makeup, your remaining
unaware of how cold it was
outside my car,
under the stars,
with which, from our distance,
whether turning clockwise
or counterclockwise, we made a meaningful axis.
And in these paper-lined boxes, nearly empty
but expanding and loud,
tiled with wrinkles in incredible relief,
uncurling into tiny ellipses, each of them,
filling up with snow.
First few minutes of my newest piece…