A Brief History Of The Eventual
The
blood-smell does so excite us
Following it
in infrared through skyless forests
Unknown
animals: thee and thou, me and you, king and queen, ditch and spring
Just to be
sure, I’ll be obvious about my intentions
There are
witches beneath the frozen Earth
Their veins
shot out like the roots of gnarled Lilacs
We dreamed
Or vice
versa
Sirens/
swans
Songs
Fell from
storms like slow winters
First I
walked barefoot through the weeds
And then the
forest grew,
Twisted higher
than ashy Eden
Whose wounds
I chronicle as reductions to ultraviolet night
Those of you
listening through these veils of wire and time discontented
Let me see
Your paper
moon
Like I did
the first time,
Brighter
than the protest of a thousand howling pyres
Heartland, Age 12
The cornfields we used to steal from,
A few ears at dusk
I remember
How cold the rain was
The end of summer
Radiating
Like a dark green river dreaming
Wingspan/Post-Flight
Measurements
A vast act of remembrance, this
The Blizzard Forever, 1989 to 2017 (so far)
You hardly notice
The wingspan spreading overhead
I assume
A deliberateness to the motion
Dark water in small amounts
That’s your vaccination
Against exposure kid, against the cold
Folded like a failed polaroid
It could be a dream
I’m in conversation with
But whose?
There’s no great comfort
In the sterile clockwork mathematics of all this
Of course the machinery could be perfected
eventually
But it’s less interesting than leaving the grit inside to eat
up the gears
I prefer to think in terms of catastrophe, in terms of thirst
A choral ode, a downturn: saltwater in a moon-white teacup
Mistaken for light and sipped with a civilized grimace
Whatever it is that makes you feel better
The etymology will be painfully obvious
Most of the time I measure it in dents and bruises
Compared to the last crash landing
What heals tallied next to what doesn’t
Except on some dusks when I am spectral, uninhibited and
wounded
X-rayed till I hiss:
Dancing slow in the thinning shade alone
This way
The divide
Before it disappears,
Before a world begins
A déjà vu is etched in sudden snow
Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist. The author of several collections of poetry including 'The Whisper Gallery' and 'The Age Of Jive", he lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
