local nova drafts » das Gewicht eines fossilen Veränderungen über die Zeit
From an Amtrak window
I could unleash molecular trade winds in reeds
With the brush of a hand
Where two halves of an egret oppose each other, laughter;
This small space with clack and bone, of trying, of sorrow;
A bead of pond water smeared with blush ran down
Onto the collar of a Perseid blouse. The bird watcher,
The body dripped iron-rich cells from a sharp tip,
Where am I standing when I hear the spigot turn on?
To drain this pond–
Where will the apple be shot, where against a wooden fence
Will a broad brush paint red into knot holes–
Where will the bandages be kept in another house,
What if they are out–
When the silhouette’s molars return, aching
At seven o’clock; when flames overtake
The driest reeds; when the stomach turns inside out
During free fall; when spit lands on pavement,
When you notice my eyes grown more dim
Looking down at you, my hands the same–
Outcome is amoeba.
Trying is terrestrial; all the tools made by indigenous flesh.
I want to see you make plywood with your own bare hands and steam.
Build a simple casket, build a bird feeder,
Build a box for mason bees, build a trap
For capturing motion at seven o’clock
That runs from the bedroom door
Enter a living room from the back: they are having a viewing.
There is a finely dressed body in a crib. A plywood crib,
Adult-sized. There is crushed pomegranate
And bread and a butter knife.
Several grandchildren are playing with frogs.
There drifts friction of hands rubbing wood grain
Outside the window. And there drifts a body
On its buoyancy; there drift seasonal laborers towards an escalator,
There drift soap stains down a shower drain,
There cools a subtle moon
And if the casket was made from gold,
Bury it in the Negev; sleep with a bedside hammer
From now until then–
Bury it in the Negev; bury it with every last molar.
Bury it deep in the sands of the Negev