Wind
Copyright © 2018 Noah Warren. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Winter 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Noah Warren. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Winter 2018.
Sky answers lake with light and lake,
sky, with a white and blue light
that fountains up through itself, wild and still.
Trembling between origin and origin
thought sheds its language skin
and the old I thins
into blades of seeing. Now the air
grows tunneled, now the sky diminishes,
At the Standard they pay a man to lathe olive wood
into the softball-sized spheres they load the braziers with
in the heat of early afternoon. They douse them with gas, touch
a match: and the guests with their crow faces
and sky-colored suits emerge
to sip from tiny eggshell glasses.
Orchids lean out from jute baskets lashed
to the palm trunks, lit from below they flutter
like moths—undesperate, and the guests
look exactly the same age, their fingertips linger
on each other’s forearms as they form tender
careless sentences, which diffuse,
The lake dry; it seethes.
Rust creeps through
brittle reeds, seeps into
the rustling seed-heads—
one stalk bows
beneath the weight
of the blackbird’s feet.
From the path edge
the fat lizard barks,
a silent croak.
He pivots, sprints over sticks,
plunges into shallow hole.
His dull eyes glowing in the hole—
The late heat spreading, prickling
the inside of our faces—
an earth crumbles away
around us, scales
dropping from the eye.
And I love you, and I think
time is mind—
our heads globes
of unsifted time.