Meditation on East Jarvis

I am trying to take the long view, (Who

are you talking to?) to put what happened

into the frame of what happens when

two merge like backfires set

one against another.

I am trying to learn the long

form, the view from the dormer

window, across the green and beyond

the gate to where the horses

trot. There is a company of men

seeking some sort of comfort

in the foaming of lake thru

cracks in the rocks.     (What are you

holding on to?)

Watch.

A lover lost her brooch there once

and again. A fossil can form in no time

under the right conditions,

air released on its own recognizance.

This isn’t something you do

the night before. (Isn’t it?) Running scales is hard,

hard work. Let go of the day

in May when you thought you had

joy, that afternoon in June when a desire was close

to fulfilled, the twilight of July, the final inning

of the first game of a doubleheader.

Talk about something else:

Turning spears and arrows into sparrows

and setting them loose inside

the mirrored walls of the city’s

unerring ears. You sought me out among

the landscapes and portraits

I saw you in certain slit

of light, (Are you certain?) the unblinking blinds

between us, a little past noon. In the divided

glare, your hair a faint palate

dying air. You sought me out

to have someone

                        to leave

with. I built a fortnight

against your piano softness.

I sought out a patient I could heal,

a lover in black clothes

to confront and charm me.

I sought to stay and move

together in what I imagine Kabuki to be

or Noh. Something shatters

only to be gathered together

later—stained glass.

If there is an answer to be

salvaged, it’s only here. (How did you

get here?) It moves not with

me but against and away: wet cement

written in wet cement, hardening

into a lesser version of itself. Circular

reasoning is the only kind.

I think again about the lost

brooch and what ceased to be

the last time I saw it. I am trying

to become a student of tautologies

of muscle around bone, features

of a face identified by definition. The light

that touches lingers like the tips of my

hands sometimes did. Why begin

with a lie? (Look at me.) There is a difference

between Christmas and Tuesday,

this year, although the gifts end

up at Goodwill either way. Goodwill

is as good a place as any

to end up.

Originally published in a slightly different version in The Journal, Issue 33.1 — Spring/Summer 2009