from The Prospect

meaning that the moon will pass over the sun and blank it out.
in that moment the corona will appear to become brighter.
it “appears” because it does not actually become brighter; it “appears” to be so
in that moment grasses will whisper and the stars will turn red, blue, green
and maybe even speak—what will they say? SETI will pick up a message
from beyond newly discovered possibly planetary bodies.
there will be a low beeping and crunching sound that seems to emanate
from all over, but most likely from three blocks away where men are
directing a bulldozer to tear up the street and it sounds so omnipresent,
we were all talking about it this morning. it is small yet momentous,
how molecules jostle one another to carry the sound of their jostling
over often enormous distances.

                                                                    in that moment of eclipse
the phone rings, have you seen it, are you seeing it, I finally understand
what we’re doing, in this moment of glowing darkness I understand
what I put in the water I drink the water and if together
we are all getting hot we are making it hot and I must find
my way to the water from the bed through all the squares of darkness
and back again through treachery of light

More by Marcella Durand

from "In This World of 12 Months"

Your voice carries easily through liquid; bridge is
halved by fog, as your tongue is divided in mist.
The fog of machinery augmented by steam.
Powered and then not powered, below a line, dark.
Cold, the weather has turned and out there, turbines still.
Water has divided, soft things and diverse: what
seemed one broke. Two cities and more. Lines reappear.
Across there is a wall also a door or steam
turns into fog. The bridge is two; light is taken.
People enjoy themselves, looking at glittering
potential floods. It is so nice to have a view.

Related Poems

Temple Example

The mind doesn’t do what we want it to do.

Mine plays speed Scrabble; it sifts pages and pages

of pictures of shoes. Palmyra goodbye. Temple of Bel not a pun

but a ruin. A ruined ruin, a ruin sent to oblivion

on purpose. Who cares if I fold up at my desk

a heap of angry sorrow. Not any candidate,

no ambassador. Sign a petition? Email some senators?

I make nothing happen. I make

nothing but orders, seven-letter words, coffee

with the hard water from the oleander-pierced pipes

with their roaches and mud. A temple

stood for twenty centuries and today the New York Times

shows us its new life as dust. Baal is how they spell it.

A neat aerial square of nothing now. The world wants

what from us in reply to the hatred of the mind?

I should say “soul,” I know, or “history” or “culture”

but probably only the mind can thwart destructions.

In America, the mind is also hated,

by whosoever sells us shoes and phones. We are subtle

here, give lots of money to the arts.