John Bowman

Letters could like larvae grow

in lath beneath a plaster page.

White bodies curled in wood.

               
               (


The writing on a wall destroys a wall,
or through a slot, a book opening
the next room narrows:

coffin      ocean      closet
in which slow chaos

                         churns the clouds, a hand-clap,
                         acclamation of rain, privately
                         acclimated at the table-top
                         and soil everywhere in the sheets,


               )


surrounds me sleeping and must
not the frames erase? nor could
we count the hours’ contents,
ours and others denial
of ownership, of every city
flower.
               when loops of smoke hung from a beam
               or the rungs of ladders into the attic,
               lungs-full the whole breathing doorway.
               A home number.


               (                                                                                


                            And received someone, you not being here
                            camouflages me - a beige bandage - yellow crayon star
                            or gypsum patch over my eye, your breath like a paint poured
                            over my hair, glossed laurel
                            edge sharp enough to ink.
                            And thinking of his shoulder and that constellation
                            of sweet bay scent, us bachelors
                            boreal, a crown of leaves were stars.
                            “Ace of Swords”, give me an ax or medallion,
                            we’re winning the race past Daphne
                            where she sprouts two bush like wings.


               )


However not living within the (s)core

of a wheel spoken of a violin broken.


               (


         You and the kitchen interior
          filling with art implements
          and dirt; each instant
          seeming to align
          in opposite corners;
          square scene of the hours,
          through what disembodied
          pane a reflex and a world
          entwine, re-glazed and fixed
          into a sash itself salvaged.

               )

               Unwashed and ignorant the heart
                         in weathers wet sears its fixture
                                   in the hearth’s gaze.

               “With proper tools these hands
                         could edit, could reverse
                                   that material accretion of moments’

               Stray hair and loose change,
                         words piled in a landfill
                                   if washed away an eon

               May suffice, for this broadcast
                         to surpass heaven’s bubble.”
                                   our earth’s babble...

                    
               (
          

                                                  Has bequeathed our eyes to us, to fire,
                                                  the clamorous hands risen to extinguish

A solo cello by the stove knelt
arranging snow around her,
weighted with fabrics,
the hillside called funeral
parade through hemlock,
                                                       red
as a warning. Frozen we were
together wheel and handle
bearing dream into public,
Shoulder to shoulder.


                )


A violent soil wove a place of me
rocking in the shade, the sun falling
and the moon falling. Lillies on the crests
of waves and mirrors in the waves, between
the pages: afternoons cathedrals fingers.
Your sun-bright cheek could be a wall.
My home where my hand rests.
The beating of wings on the dial
of a little radio in the fireplace.

Posted 07/25/11

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