Fountain Street | Page 2

underbelly,?wheels turn toward my room
a door creaks, a stranger materializes?into mother with each footstep
my body folds?into her long blue coat
ice breaking
I cross the wires where the hairs rest?on the red barbs. Her scent lingers in the air.?My hatchet mirrors the round moon momentarily?as I swing it above me to split the thick sheet of ice.
Behind a tree, she watches?the water rise and collect in a small pocket.?Her hips shift, then she descends?down the white embankment toward me.
Leadville
there is a corner where I choose to sleep?where the low ceiling slants?and meets above the supports
the walls are porous, I hear your pulse beat?and feel the moisture?gather about your hands
I never see you descend into the ground,?I can only imagine the stillness?of the tunnels, the lack of sound
commentary:
don't stay too long in Leadville,?move on to the campfire?where we huddled together?like some ancient tribe?learning the power of stories?to stave away the night
tell the story again?but this time remember?that it is only another town?where the blood drying?on the rocks?is your own
grandfather
the crossbeam creaks?when grandmother cries,?the floorboards muffle?the drunken rage?of her husband
she rocks steadily above him?in the master bedroom?with two generations of boys?in her lap
they are all men now?and each has taken his turn?hauling the sad figure?up the stairs
commentary:
I have also seen?this inner structure?of ancestral bonds,?each fiber having the color of pain?passing between father and son?and on through to grandsons
I understand that it is whole?that it is pure?that I lose this view when I am in it,?pulling against the weight?of this old man's body?that I am carrying
oracle
I.
weve run together for days,?the poles chafing our shoulders--?we've had no choice?but to champion our mother?over the dirt path?toward the stone house
the road is narrowing?as the weeds rush by?snapping in the spokes--?run faster, the wheels are turning?the secret from her?and the sun is scorching our backs
II.
contrary to legend, the brothers?never died from exhaustion?nor from Apollo's quixotic mercy?but they did sleep well for two nights?as their mother rambled on in the dark
they left Delphi crestfallen?and slumped into the harness on the third morning,?glanced at the mumbling woman?and headed back to the farm
commentary:
looking northwest from the farm?you can see where?in another age?the edge of a glacier?left a row of rocks?arrayed in a frozen line?still marching south.
looking to the east?you can still find the place?where a train of oxen-drawn Conestogas?stopped long enough?for my great-grandmother?to be born.
Part Two
the beginning of a scene
her wan smile rejects you,?around it, the wind occurs--?somewhere else, on another porch?this night is not so particular
tell yourself that nature?has no motives or conceits,?that her hair only suggests?the shape of the wind,?that her eyes do little else?than reflect the heavens
Locust Street
Shadows press into the ground,?the black trees lay flat?against the clouds;?jackdaws arc above the rooftops?then push into the wind?toward the highest branches;?a boy whirls around a tree,?emulating their startled flight,?then ambles toward his brothers by the lake.
One by one, the windows light up?as the elders lean toward the street--?their boys grow in the darkness,?appearing larger in silhouette each year?as they round the corner.
Appalachia
In the rhododendrons, something stirs.?Tar paper shacks on the black slope?lean in the direction of the wind.?The dogs tense and bristle their coats,?their master adjusts his head lamp.
Their orange hair quivers?as they bay into the valley.?A pine tree bends with the weight?of some invisible animal?scaling the branches.
The grass moves at the edge of the field?in waves and small eddies,?then stops, then begins?as the dogs collect their senses?beneath the brush.
The moon passes by a long cloud,?then rolls into the darkness.?The ground shudders,?a constellation of headlamps?defines the body of the forest.
visitation
the grey arms?define the impressions?of gravity,
her body?presses into?his suit
like a child?face down?in the sand
but instead?of water pouring?into the mold
imagine space?pushing the cloth?into its grey valleys--
the bottom of the ocean?is lighter than?this room--
the grey arms?reach for?something
a strand of smoke?slips from a pair of lips,?drifts to the floor
a pearl necklace?falling into?the water
understanding the ancients
An airplane buzzed overhead,?a dozen or so seagulls?pecked around my feet,?a man wearing a turban skated by--?and for one moment?you seemed to converge with all of it.
palimpsest
a woman slips through the long cattails?then pushes off from the bank?towards the center of the pond
she sinks into the water?as her pale suggestion echoes outward?on the edge of the ripples
the stars realign quickly?on the surface of the pond?as if the evening had not been disturbed?by her body, even for a moment
commentary:
an image on the surface,?a woman's body?piercing through it?only to be swallowed up?by the order of things
should her act?engrave a story on the water?or is it better to pass?through the wind like a bird?leaving no trace?of ever having been here
Part Three
sympathetic magic
America, forgive?this apostrophe, I'm?channeling Whitman--?he says his atoms?are rushing into the veins?of the new revolution,?he's assimilating?into phosphor dots, trying?to form a sincere face,?he's easing through?our labyrinth with a new heart,?pulsing in the cursors?in a remote chatbox on the eve?of the apocalypse--?the future is pixellating?into his beard, he is?singing:
a million Trojan horses?are circling the