Now What - Joel Chace/Cheryl Penn

Now What

Our structure was framed, still

 unwalled, unpainted

but burnished,

reflecting

an iridescent sun.

 "What season do you after all prefer,

and what knife with which to cut it?"

 ‘tis not the season

but the time,

crepuscular light

through ancient cracks.

Each tear leaves a tear in this fabric.

"Go.

                                      Through."

cut

a path

through

with

Tears of coming

HIGH

TIDE

a fragrance of difference

colours the wind.

:  this is the wind that raises 

                                         the roof, cases the windows,

   

                                                   affixes the walls, paints the

wood of the form that’s known as our house.

The Garden

she bends low

over growing things

soil sifting through

fingers

loose with abundant life.

Nearby, a new rotary alleviates

some traffic. 

                                5 p.m.,                                                   horrifying

hour.                                                         

she does not notice

the hour/the humans/the horror

outside the walls of the world

of

her garden.

...about                  not noticing              about

                    focusing on

                                                    work

Hannah Arendt

                                       wrote...

she may not notice

the way THEY do/don’t

she fathoms 

suffering

grief

bitterness

despair

it is the Hour of Repair

inside the walls of her garden.

The City

Childs Play

Plat Book

Sinking Moon

Night Trips

At

10’s and 11’s in you.

…out of the air

                           a high radiance strides

                    with shoulders

                                                      bare and beautiful…

Yesterdays

gather

on windy corners

sipping coffee.

youths run into

oncoming trains

of emaciated Renaissance

and intellectual detritus.

The High Radiance

shimmers.

Only       one  

 horizon

will block this swarm,

 but stands

                     

                              can be taken

         on many stone corners

indelible aroma

air splice

coffee on the park -

bench

mark the tables

whose histories

are etched in heat-stain-rings.

THIS is where we fought.

                         

Construction:

                                                         Risings:

                           Language.  

Sound structures

Phonological Pavements

Morphological Moments

Locupletative was lost

In oncoming traffic.

In rooms,                        in

alleyways ,       we hold one another

to death                              and search

for other prayerful occasions.

The Bridge

If you pass this way

and encounter

the whisper

of

the exiled maiden

Do not stay.

...then a voice said              build archipelagos 

                                    that span our

                river                                  that

rise and                                    ray               across

                                 our river...

Between -

     

There is no river

no clouds     no shimmering thing.

the Waiting Place -

the shelves where books of unlived lives

are stacked in dusty array,

opened

Anticipating

The Span Crosser.

...on her balcony                   she takes

                                  morning hours to peel

          an orange                           suddenly

                                       violence of

wings                      book after book

                                                          escaping...