Thew
Thigh as if thought
By marble and its halt—
Debauchee of blue
Gave my hands to me and
They cradled you.
Logic forgot its autumn
Kindles just such lapse—
Lapis and its dartles.
:::
Gust I’ll never forget
Till Tuesday, when something
Worse always seems
To follow and I
Follow these tracks, spry
Marble we only
Know as hard after hardly
Touching at all, caress over cold
Shoulder south of coldest.
:::
Wet light shakes and his
Hair distracts me from
Any other horizon, hum
Along ridge starred by rue
Plus names of every chemical this afternoon.
Light billows, refracting
New world border like the years between
Lutes and tape-recorders, the way consciousness
Rearranges furniture, some kind of Osiris
Waits for ferry, and every
Port more closely resembles home.
:::
Tracking gods, and slips, must not be
Daphne, whose bark all bitter
Eats with its tannins, and we
Clarify particulars in archaic light, night with
Moon for careful glossing.
Call him Endymion, warm glow where marble
Patches his inner thigh—
Shivers blankly, out of
Reach but we greenly, gods
Stroked silver, spark screen
Belies intention than desire.
:::
I write my
Way into real, people clarified into gods,
Shepherd nowhere outside Eden, as strictly
Realistic as it takes some god to bare,
Marble painted with
No mind for skin, desire and its
Rusted substrate, strata ambits between
Imitation and original intention
Here at border of before and
Before, ochre sienna freckles.
:::
Stutter stripped to curve
Through which gods get seen,
Glance palisades place, and him
Placental center, slur where gulls
Snap and splatters rose, boy hunched
Under sun and looks over
Edge at vasty sea, due east
Of memory of water
As blue—aster stars his
Eye, wild with seconds
Person, place, and wing.
:::
Bell I swing low by, gods fizzed
On at inscrutable hour, Eden with
Archipelago of holes, sudden
Flare as myth turns to wind, the
Kind with any name I can’t recall
But makes
Me map of my
Body, intervals of vowel and fire.
I try to touch the very core of motion—
To get its vector all over my hands, its vector to
Hold my soul, set it on rail, mere reflection of
More primary conveyance.
I can never go
Far enough. I can stare at this
Mirror and see finity I embody.
But my capacity to look
Refracts endlessly, telephone
Doomed to always be on, ontology of call and
Response I can’t quite hold.
Sometimes, too true, I can’t look. No, I
Won’t. I can refuse
To see
Doom where
Flowers could be.
I do not look
Into my heart, unless you agree
None counts like cores circumference.
Darling, when sound falls short of sense
Please try and find sense in sound.
Scree skirts this slope I nestle.
Light glances its glows
Like trestles, until eventually
No likeness remains.
I do not dare
Stop, and when I do
Let’s mean enjambment, break
As one harnesses more speed.
Let’s mean sharpest breakages, those most clean,
Those most clouded by
Spores and their portals. Clouded or pied
And purely I
Like speckles stipple trout.
Marble reflects gods and they bounce
Between glass panes paneling capital, shade where
Dramas play out inverse of dreamt.
Geology has its cause, and art
Causes sun to stripe his thigh: I see
Thew twitch, spores where
Freckles traced arcs, no kind of iris.
Any day blooms come in,
Remind me concrete requires
Sand from some beach.
I step through cold clarity.
Wreck, rub, grip on his
Thigh, as if marble
Had thought its way to flesh, muscle and its
Administrative retinue, heat just above
Burn, break, sweat and
Gives ways to pages smudged from turning
But we are here to complete sentences:
At exact angles to exiled gods, handsome
Takes on the ruin of permanence.
Maybe some marble, some mind for
Veins, gaining this
Hill, working those thews and their
Attendant meditations, otherwise
Known as world, loved as
Mediation, otherwise known
As tone breaks out and outer bearings
Break unto some grove, some
Glove, song you can
Slide over your cortex, so that
Sense both amplifies and loses its
Likelihood to knife
You where no
Identity was meant to go
And guess that gallop, dactylic
Serene with sere leaves foregrounding
The half-lives of heroes from eras
Despoiled by this present empire,
Pure annexation
Of nonsense and its upper
Latitudes, where some certain kinds
Of reason and utmost risk
Grow semaphores wave their temptations.
Adam Strauss lives in Louisville, KY. He is the author of one full-length collection: For Days (BlazeVox). Most recently, poems of his appear in Fence, Interim, The Tiny, the Brooklyn Rail, and Dream Pop.