They told me how one architect
cast himself as St Thomas
to look out over
the rooftops
in perpetuity–
a sentinel of the Île,
to dawns, the rains,
those low gold winter sunsets,
the Seine grown vein-dark
by evening, bridge spans
reflected to form
perfect spheres of sky–
transient beauty,
it was a later addition,
the apostles on the spire,
nothing lasts forever
as it stands
and nothing stands forever
but they took down
those statues
a few days ago
for what little that is worth
It has been a while
and it will be
a while more
still awake
waiting to watch
an hour disappear
shouldn’t be
it’s late
and getting later
or earlier
wherever you
draw the line
however you define it
looking through
your photos
to know a thing to have
to hold it
it must be late
to be thinking still
about distance
At night the half
-constructed tower
is full of light
and nothing
else, each morning
recently it has snowed,
heavily, after a period
of rain, it is natural
and unsettling
what fills
the hours, open places
devoured, as if commodities–
mere weeks till spring,
and then what?
How many words for snow
what could be
long-awaited
or sudden
sea change overnight
the gulls are beside themselves
the city roofs are white
ice-plated pavement
you are far
and likely to stay
that way
for a while
the sky is still
flakes dislodge in the breeze
whole trees dissolve
into white pixels
and then it all starts up again
like an orchestral chorus
overwrought and beautiful
it makes its own time
big surf days
the horizon akimbo
music through
the open window
slack-keyed
as the palms bend
under the weight
of all this sunset
It encloses and divides
of course not just physically
say them and we become
us because of what
we are not–
imply danger
like an impatient shadow
which makes this safety
but not for much longer–
so what has changed?
The sun got lower.
Sell it quickly
there is no time, suddenly
no time to lose–
loss is arriving
so deny it
be afraid so they
become fearsome
discredit suffering
or accept the precarious–
was any of this earned?
This side of the sunset
and so not that
could it be
so arbitrarily that
the lots are drawn?
Like a line on a map
in the sand–
you have to draw it
somewhere or else
it wouldn’t exist
and then where
would we be?
And who?
this day was longer
than the day before it
late filtered sun
on snow-laden trees
winter is textural
rime ice and powder
everything built
upon another
cold pastiche
this punched out step
in a snowfield
an irreversible mark
sharp punctuation
but not indelible
this night this storm
will erase it
nothing lasts
not even nothing
Such a long long way
to go and still think
maybe not–
call it a joke
or call it a knife
it gets the point across
.
Real snow recently
deep stuff
cathartic erasure
a blank slate
for a blank stare
for whatever can’t be said
.
Hesitation is an answer
delay is an answer
even silence is an answer
yes, it can be heard–
in the depths of the glades
my ears were ringing from it
Blink and it’s gone
the gingko bare, not golden
any old tree now
another bleak gray day
could be any Northern city
really from this low height
every houseplant
shoved up by the window
for the the briefest glimpse
of light, probably too cold
and dry for the orchid
but mild discomfort
soft complaint
that’s how you know
you’re alive
the crepe jasmine
that never unfurls
its blooms,
waiting for something
that never
arrives, sometimes
it hurts to look at it
With each night
the question
grows more pronounced
curving around
like a road
a sharper turn
than expected
headlights
only reaching
so far
forward motion
the only certain thing
