COASTAL EVENT
The dimming sky looms, feral
but hemmed in. Crows peck through
the rubble and stones, looking for
sustenance. Inside, the girl quietly gathers
supplies...tent, dried food, water,
tools, medicines, pulse quickening at
the thought of desert and canyon, much
safer altitude than this poisoned, low
acreage of sorrows.
Outside this inside, the man leaps
across boundaries while she stretches
her constrictions and they meet nowhere
in the distance. Nodding somberly,
they agree that they should abandon
themselves and blend in with
the landscape, display the invisible, stagger
away from this remoteness, sensations
that render words sterile
In this orbit of extreme cold and heat, they
glance at no one thing and shriek epithets, losing
themselves in it-never-was, in dilution, in
contortions, mantras and impenetrable
visions so that they leave having never
arrived. They come having never gone, repeating
what was never begun, trying again,
always bloody trying again, to unravel
strictures tied to house, one car and money that
continually abort the escape.
They disappear, reappear, mere
glimmers of light, sparks jetting off
the fire, glints in a wave. Indifference
grazes his glance, he a child uneasy in
maturity, she an isolated boat willing to sink.
There is always the high desert, calling, calling,
as they uncouple, divide, the sum not equal
to the parts, theirs a departure of rare
meeting, the unfelt fleeing the felt utterance
of touch that, like sand and bitter wind,
lands and takes off.
The habitat has died. She is no longer willing
to inhale deadly fumes of this
energy field polluted beyond its
forever redemption.
Even the sunset knows, spreading fire
across the old homestead,
a beautiful virus that
locks fates, freezing plots
and rash wanderings before setting
in a blaze over the high desert and riotous,
painted dream of canyon.
Time, somehow, no longer has
a damned clue how
to be right. The magnolia is making room
for its new selves, tri-globes of light
awash in winter ice and gesture,
yet absolute as the urge to live or the leak in
the cracked, well-worn mold of this
moment.
She resignedly stacks the sealed tubs, jugs
and suitcases in a corner nearest the door,
where they will bide until bidden or else til
the crushing sea rushes in and
she is healed of her metastatic metaphors,
whichever comes first.
--Jo VonBargen 2013
The dimming sky looms, feral
but hemmed in. Crows peck through
the rubble and stones, looking for
sustenance. Inside, the girl quietly gathers
supplies...tent, dried food, water,
tools, medicines, pulse quickening at
the thought of desert and canyon, much
safer altitude than this poisoned, low
acreage of sorrows.
Outside this inside, the man leaps
across boundaries while she stretches
her constrictions and they meet nowhere
in the distance. Nodding somberly,
they agree that they should abandon
themselves and blend in with
the landscape, display the invisible, stagger
away from this remoteness, sensations
that render words sterile
In this orbit of extreme cold and heat, they
glance at no one thing and shriek epithets, losing
themselves in it-never-was, in dilution, in
contortions, mantras and impenetrable
visions so that they leave having never
arrived. They come having never gone, repeating
what was never begun, trying again,
always bloody trying again, to unravel
strictures tied to house, one car and money that
continually abort the escape.
They disappear, reappear, mere
glimmers of light, sparks jetting off
the fire, glints in a wave. Indifference
grazes his glance, he a child uneasy in
maturity, she an isolated boat willing to sink.
There is always the high desert, calling, calling,
as they uncouple, divide, the sum not equal
to the parts, theirs a departure of rare
meeting, the unfelt fleeing the felt utterance
of touch that, like sand and bitter wind,
lands and takes off.
The habitat has died. She is no longer willing
to inhale deadly fumes of this
energy field polluted beyond its
forever redemption.
Even the sunset knows, spreading fire
across the old homestead,
a beautiful virus that
locks fates, freezing plots
and rash wanderings before setting
in a blaze over the high desert and riotous,
painted dream of canyon.
Time, somehow, no longer has
a damned clue how
to be right. The magnolia is making room
for its new selves, tri-globes of light
awash in winter ice and gesture,
yet absolute as the urge to live or the leak in
the cracked, well-worn mold of this
moment.
She resignedly stacks the sealed tubs, jugs
and suitcases in a corner nearest the door,
where they will bide until bidden or else til
the crushing sea rushes in and
she is healed of her metastatic metaphors,
whichever comes first.
--Jo VonBargen 2013
