Hillary Gravendyk
was foraging outside a patch of burning birds,
papering and evaporated blue over a thin field
and caught myself inside a nest like an eroded
cliff
or the strutted gap between vent and vented,
formally
and humming or I was the wing and circle saw
full of hungry throats or bound to them and
fleeing
or trees pierced into a scatter of trajectory,
or cars
torched and chiming, and/or you were there:
carrier cloud, you empty along the bottled
breakers, or
you the jealousy harp, you the scenting dog,
and
you the lakeward, the forget.
you the clapper of each bell.
Inside, things are sizably arranged, each
to a season. They may appear quietly and
more
elaborate than they are, but sheltered against
the elements, how could they appear otherwise?
Against a rosy pane and a rough wall, a hand
might be pressed—rudely or with delicacy—might
leave
a mark combed with prophetic lines or else a
blurred
star of heat, fading at each finger-point. In
such a long hall
"goodbye" gets repeated until it
becomes our politest greeting.
Things are amiss here: green dominates like a
hand,
each light greased and mirroring. If we
were a box
orientation would cast our shadows, strangely,
and toward what would we face ourselves?
Outside is a blue mouth stuffed with wet
canvas,
a long brick of teeth, our thick hearts
sheathed in algae. There's enough room to
adjust
the vantage. At some points, it's quite
pretty.