359 Readings

Reseau*

Réseau * 

             ……half way         halfway
of the west-to-the-west
haze-line striations
resemble tight spray
o december
re-laced, re-sewn



re-eve- to pass through a hole and back:  a miniscule turn, a self-curve
the horizon a band
to move under, never long wet, never long dry



             weather centre reads lo.        L.O.
sublunary      its coldlike breath      around itself a      white square on the window
                                                         where the glass is a chart
                                                         its finework the sky
far Draco, Auriga,
Lacerta, Serpens
Sagittari, Antares
                                                                  ----------ø--------------------------/
                                                  ?              \                                       /
                                     ---------/------------????                                       ¥
                                             /º                  \


A flat spindle sketch



take it away
hold it to the pull-blind light
that leaves the house so.


                                   Numeral. This to that. To that this. A trace

like birdseed, bright dots on a basin, a triptych times two
and through it, the street



                          snow-bent, siftspill
                          whiteout everours
                          passes by

                          a tiny icedrift
                          cirrocumulus
                          undrawn
                          can’t be drawn
                          immutable
                          in its mingling figure.



How it works in me, it leases        [lets out]        makes me say
yes, there will be precipitation tonight        [on the eaves]



later mist slipping in airfoil chill


and o [l.o] the weather centre, its black stitch print
                     is broken
in a halfway life
through a hole on a glass  []
where L is half
or almost.



And I’m sure there was something in the road that fell from you or me.


An acrobat or a face.


A cirrus spill lid fall lid fall.      Just shy of one cloud.


In the lateness of the day, silvering gladly



                                                                              I left prints in the snow to the
neighbor’s fence
                                                                                                   dark incline run-off holes
                                                                                                 diagrammic
                                                                                             point to point
                                                                                         pain vs. gravity
                                                                                  loosening space about me.
Posted 11/17/13
This poem first appeared in Propeller
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