Fractions Lit by Sun, poem by James Grabill

      People who had believed in the color green,
      the gorge falls behind atomic tedium
      expelling long afternoon over this fraction
      through all dark blast flash not happening,
      the planetary crux in the crucible of kindness,
      through thumping chest-swims breath knows
      the beginning of, something like a dissolved room
      where a white door frame empties into a pasture,
      where two people went mid day,
      small flowers burning in future cells.

      *

      What doesn’t happen takes away more
      than we know, the single revolution
      through convergence in time. Mists
      from grasshoppers, from under the lift
      and fall of milk from the breast of the moon,
      from inside the question and its answer,
      the queen of bees--the counter-clockwise stirred
      by the clockwise, primordial sparks
      wheeling under your microscope, spinal
      candles curving with slippery bodily slopes,
      the built-up neighborhood grated into parts
      of ground, a woman just having gone
      through an iron gate: somewhere an ancestor
      is making her shoes, in morning spin,
      light having turned when.

      *

      Ocean fish drift through tinctures spreading
      in the mouth of the soaked river, the stout hello
      from factories constructed around furnaces
      of hope. Air scat-blasted back into first air,
      chartreuse games given off by completion
      and the long giving sunlight has as our scaffolding
      with the beered-up out shouting, the squealing
      shrill religious massive cross Ferris
      wheel dipping them down under.

      *

      But something like a white door
      opening at the top of time. Post-war melting
      ice a crystal carpet off-draining, the liminal
      imperative of sudden ripe sliced oranges,
      a missed note broken over and over its protons,
      that squeak of Keds on the varnished wooden floor
      where childhood moved, the close hello
      through grasping of the baby’s hand,
      where a stairway went right up
      into blank night between generations.

      *

      Solar wind picked up by a boy
      whose body had formed his thinking
      carried him further than someone might have
      known, listening to the static, the solar energy
      exquisite, the tropical bell sound inside us
      from neutrinos, the mother that rain is.
      With bees that tend to enter flowers
      as if they loved them, the boy old enough
      to regard the young woman not far from him
      as if he could someday
      be someone kind beside her.

      *

      Someone who has listened to bees old enough
      old enough. Some people not even understanding
      being this old, the flower stalks reaching
      ahead of a body, the hypnotic numerals
      stone after stone back toward the horizon,
      summer wind that propels the curve of snails,
      the black box magnetic fields sending the young off,
      where a worker felt his face in this market,
      sensing the rolling of ground into violet shadows
      of a distant mountain, where hours before
      the military jeeps had passed
      and a man had spoken to the woman
      as if he knew her and would return.


AddThis Social Bookmark Button
Random Contributor
Teresa White
Navigation
Newsletters