Of This

And so traverses, gun in hand, the creek.
We on the other side waiting dreamily
as for a wave. The head of the tree 
is heavy. The pears are not ripe.
I do not dare look up, seeing as 
the day has splurged against my face 
and you are on the other side 
where the grid breaks into tiny oracular 
tiles, wafer thin, distorted, pale.
The huge sound is mechanical, not
expressionistic: things 
into other things, exploding. 
The serial furthers.
Were you wearing a sombrero or
just a hood to keep hot chords
from your skin? Serial, as in many 
tunes, many kills, weeping
additions and accumulating, dry
remainders; the cost of endurance. 
 
Credit

Copyright © 2017 by Ann Lauterbach. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 3, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.

About this Poem
“I am not sure what the ‘this’ in ‘Of This’ is, other than a general apprehension of the state of things in our political-cultural world: the sense that violence is always near, that it is difficult to know where to look, and the rational ‘grid’ has lost its bearings as a way to clarity. I was reading recently a dialogue between Ernst Bloch and Georg Lukács on early modernist expressionism. I am always interested in how subjective and objective ideas of reality are parsed. Seriality is one way to think about (historical) temporality in which some things remain and others drop away, and there is a remainder, what remains. What remains endures; or we endure what remains. Formally, I like to see how the poem attaches to its materials.”
—Ann Lauterbach