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Selected poems from embrace



The piazza is only a skin  of light, a notion of loss  contained in him as he kneels against her kindness. There is stone and sky— the terrible stumbles of memory. I want to understand  the hand unfolding, the tip and thrust of wings, the grain as bait for the savageries of flight. I am confused by the bright life of him. I look for signs and i find none save the posture of joy, the possibility of joy in his brief exhale.


Sand is a good place to start, sand and heat though he left them long ago for the  cold pavement of his escape.  A sky— the blue drag of summer and bored he might pull his sister’s braid, chase a grasshopper on to the blistered tarmac. He believes himself big, bigger than the sea sweating off the eternal dream of afternoon. His mind has no knowledge of la tour Eiffel, Rue Belgrand,  the circumference of  his lover’s yawn. Only the water flat conquerable stretching away from his  omnipotent gaze.

They sat side by side, these 2 small poems. They could not look at each other— I had not yet  given them eyes. They were sand and piazza surrounded by vast white empty. If I had known them then, if I had heard the scrape of their days. If I had climbed the Eiffel tower with them, looked to far borders, sung songs for their  lost toy boats. For them I wish beautiful mother’s behind cameras, and joy. and what would they  do with joy ? well, they would imagine hands and play guitars into the ground, they would become rock stars.



But they didn’t become rock stars.  They didn’t measure the circumference of dawn. They struggles to share the empty space of a page. Stumbling into the silence of language, their knees with no mother’s to kiss. What does it mean to be reduced to stanzas, line breaks? Does the sand, does the coffee-colored sunshine Stain anything other than this brief fit of words?



There were other memories, like snapshots 
each held in their own private embrace
i could visit them sometimes
when the day had’nt taken up all the space in my head
they were different from my memories
mine were of Chevrolets, corn fields, my grandfather asleep in the shed because he couldn’t sleep in a room wired for electric light
these memories didn’t have grandfathers or cars
they knew pénombre, ankles, birds circling in a second sky
the day waited kindly in these reveries
held like a breath in an empty concert hall
how they reach forward to penetrate this page
their desire for language overcoming corn fields, Chevrolets and electric light
but the narrative doesn’t form in their waking
only a felt sense, an ache, a stumble or a kiss
not a kiss, but a desire for-
the possibility of-
of Knowing another beyond language
but the sensation fades
the dark of words returns
and the corn grows across the tracks
the lights buzz in a thousand poems
a body moves forward
as if in memory
making mine or yours
just mine
or just yours