Justin Wymer

This is not



nature—the way



pain interrupts



its answers, ashen



 



awl-tipped



limbs waving



and brushing them-



selves, chill crushes



 



carried across



the ravine; and



a wing of



their broken flutter,



 



that desiccated



battle-din, is



hooked by a frosty



steam, and it balds.



 



Though the awls are



hollow-point—the un-



graspable locusts



having left



 



behind veins of shadowy



larvae inside them.



And the hollowed-out



scent of cold rain. And



 



suddenly—a corridor



of ropy light



twines round



the stems and



 



fills those absent



bodies with steamy



voices they cannot



share, cannot



 



reveal, retaining



a skin that shields



unerringly—And so



the sudden remains



 



only as an answer



the stilled silk



flowers



prod-up to reach



 



on this dog’s grave



(what symmetry



can gather itself



entire, in the



 



open air?)—a calm



tended to by



the wrinkled spines of



shucked chestnuts.



 



I would invoke



the radiance of the mirror



uncovering itself



inside the glistering



 



jetsam-spread of leaves, or



the receding waves of



these flowers, fathering



the dusk into them.

This collection of torches convulsing in ink: 



it is not what I wanted to give you.



All whites look older at night and yet 



the tapestry has to include them… 



I wanted you to sip this one swatch of light



that stands singly, and 



the tan peasant wind that catches and fans  



the thin milk of its undergarment, and 



how morning blood un-hasps 



the hatches behind sleep’s cogs, flooding



and the blasted furnace that risks ecstasis 



according to…* Is this truly the color of my hands?* 



I wanted to give you the searing first glance



again, wanted you to grab and fold



into that one swatch of cloth 



and stay and raise your hands 



and your children’s hands later when  



I melt into cadenza and we waft hoarsily past these



pinewood rafters, records of starlings—then



till chance is at last served raw to stirring gods,



till I can’t name the scent of any ripeness



and no longer know what cool water means,



I will needle my eyes into  



the position of afterstars. I will make 



light trip and sift off sandstone in  



the quarries. We have witnessed



too many rutilant past tenses.  



Now I shall be the saver of pauses.



We will need breath later.



We erred. Sky should be easier.  



I thought this would be different, this looking up. 



I thought there would be a granary.

1On the curt eve of November to make out of patience a new name.Shale-light, long scythes of it,2slicing through the turbid shadow-impressions of failed snow,pauses at certain angles and, inceasing to carve, deepens the engravingsof wind, hoof-prints, the murky aquatintafter-bristle of ferns iced-over andswept into new grooves...3As if justice cannot beserved to principle if the principle alone does not meltunder the surveillance of*force*—skittish, ever-4truant, this autumn wind ever-whetting itself, andthis light transmogrifying itself—a passing bird like a toss of chopped tobacco.And then, the light reconnoitering—5bossed lardy handfuls of itfallen, then cobbled in groups of two or three,among the yew-cones and in the paunchy creaseswhere the sidewalk abandons plot, sagging a little.And that single gob of it—horse-hair grey, crackling likethe fat toe of a god. After the curt melt of6this evening to wake up ina tree, into a grainin the growth in the upper left finger of the smallest branchin the very reddest tree. To sensehandlessness, then the catch-of-flint roil ofstatic—a canopy of hands. To feel my handstighten—lean—then loosen—and thento feel slenderin an unloosened light. How can one batethe tongue then, how can one judge what to savor andwhat to let turn frail andincendiary? And the light? How can one servejustice to a principleif body is one and the lolling limber light anotherthat lacquers it?7The dead have their lightless islandsand we, each new second,use that second to shuck off a secondself. All the while the small moldedbuhl leaves scattermildly, settling in our hair like cut-out lacunas fromsome fluted elemental music, inflaking November-light.I would not want, I think, in thisporcelain-light, to suffer the suddenness ofanother’s skin—to sensea shade as treacle, grey, curried, or white asleaves. There are still8the unraveling sprigs ofmy topcoat to contend with. And thenthe theater tonight.