Three Poems by Braden Bell |
by Braden Bell |
|
THREE POEMS
There is time today To draw the last black ounce of news From the paper.
They've got names in those pages That just won't quit, won't last, either.
There is a price, I remember, for having And saying it back to the paper in whispers, Like they'd have mattered.
There is time today to pay hard money To know that fires breed and bare feet clamber, to Talk to the turning page about the How, and The What After . . . Keep talking . . .
Bright nights and loud mortars deafen and alight That place in the brain that cries yes and cautions no, Marking the shrinking feeling that, to go . . .
One must start walking But won't, just can't, not When you're talking. Be quiet.
There is death to dodge, there are Places to go Alone To kill the whys and the hows. They're called bars. They sell the papers, but I won't read them. I'm not from here. I don't know you. I can't Hear you, but please Keep talking. 2. FOR SOMEONE SOMEWHERE
Took a number at the station And the floors weren’t dirty They weren’t but they were full Don’t panic is all I can say This is what floors in city stations Are for: Waiting then paying and going As the fast-track monolith gets moving And reading in a red seat beside a Frenchwoman Nothing in her Der Spiegel splayed saying Stay or don’t … The ferry rises up De-train and taste hot coffee on deck Taste the channel up there And if I saw the wind I felt it’d be a wet blanket Smelling like age But mostly like today This Is how to get a start At the very end of things This Is how to warm the sardonic arm As it shakes another sardonic bird away Inviting mad motion back to the shoes … Here comes landfall In the space between the landfill and the mouthful Of words I’d tell her If I knew her.
3. WHAT MAKES MOST SENSE...
Is the Ghost Crab Of the Namibian Skeleton Coast as it finds Today's newest sand-spit and burrows ten inches below The beaten surface, blindly Eating tiny living things Just in time for the wind to blow its cover from the haze And take the crab away. And it has fun, true fun, as it lands lost at the edge Of the inland desert and crawls back across it, Too strange to suck death from the slow trail to shore And when it gets there nothing looks the same, the weather's Changed, so it digs its place in the intertidal zone, bracing Its slight, pale person for another blast.
A gull touches down, mistaking a plastic jug in the sandbar For a white shell but it's hungry so it keeps the litter In its craw while the wind picks up, throwing it high and it won't let go, goes higher . . . It can see the dread desert from up here, so it drops the jug And flies the fuck away, Ghost Crab smiling as it crawls, having laughed as it flew.
|
< Prev | Next > |
---|