Surely Some Revelation Is at Hand
The door clicks open; enter crunch of dirt,
Arms squared. Feel like this want, driven.
Senses dragged by spruce ashes,
The closest neighbors that can’t see
Hillside or sky left days ago. The dam, motionless,
Heralds fall, teeters on the edge of uncertainty,
Burns timelines down to a nub.
Not because of entrails; not because
Of what happens next. From across the spillway,
Based on the best of judgment, and southwest,
Maybe thirty or so degrees, the fire fighters’ plane
Scooped that diver from the lake.
He suffocated in the tank, they think.
His remains, like a falling cross, only marked
Absence, spindled down into this season,
A created color, desperate for inertia,
And the deep flute of pine branches.
Centrifugal forces always seek a center,
The observer, a point of reference.
The first to wake to the flickering light
Traces the ecliptic on the bedroom wall,
And calls fire, fire, fire.
-After Ger Killeen’s Calendar
Enter cities. Now it is the winter solstice;
now the fixed savior’s birth. The sky
burns gray. White. And between
the coming days, freezing rains
spat from faces crooning crudely down
frame hours that murmur and shriek
through crowds. From steel and glass,
electric numbers tick out
looking for something warm,
something fleece that packs easy.
Pigeons swoop and scatter;
hearing strains to parse the clack
of soles on marble reading floors,
the sputtering of faux-leatherbound pages
that tell us why things don't fall down.
It actually is all to do with how the forces act
within the structure, & keeping the direction
of the thrust within the wall by loading the top.
Direction and the weight of bodies hold us.
From the travel section, fingernails
like amber tick over the ancient mausoleums,
the statues in the square. Soon,
the appended complaint of ancient trusses;
soon, the highly indexed
five centuries-long decline.
The dark flash of killdeer crying
into the dirt shoulder of the highway
is set to repeat through the basin,
miles more than I’d like to see.
Ohh, can't anybody see
The tight whine of sung syllables
break the syntax of the crouch
of mountains, and the storm
rocks the truck bed back and forth,
directionless. Telephone wire.
Guardrails stay behind and rust.
Circuitous. What happens
when the rearview mirror
sends back something unexpected?
Copper beeches. Musk of her morning scent.
Working myself up and the tires whine,
jump forward into anywhere but here.
Static is breaking itself up again
from the speaker wire come loose.
We've got a war to fight
This town. Population 143 and count
the fourth wall missing,
the gray brick schoolhouse.
Field this time into the transformer.
It blows and sparks rain.
There is a child walking nearby
and caught away
from his mother’s reach he reels
right into the dusk
emptiness nuzzling up
GUISEPPE GETTO is a Zen Buddhist, a poet, and an Assistant Professor of English at East Carolina University. His work can be found in journals such as Sugarhouse Review, Slant, Reed, and Eclectica, and in his chapbook Familiar History from Finishing Line Press. He is still trying to figure out where his own voice fits within the increasingly divergent conversation that is contemporary American poetry. Visit him online: http://guiseppegetto.com/poetry.