Three Short Pieces on Place
A place a human occupies not adjusted unusually for that occupation. Short lines in summer in the woods above the lake. Can you read from there the calm surface. As would be a small vessel floating on the sky without ripples. Air barely moving moves leaves. Did they in their wake leave us anything. Calling out sounded empty, risen around the corner of the dream. Dunes filter light impinging fragmentary raucous still compounding. Flat plant-like form the writing took, a camouflage careful mechanics held—the way through the woods’ understudy.
St. Joe’s Peninsula
A position described as facing the bay coastal pines & oaks rattling. Indentured to waves bits of bird flying low and small at a distance, coon tracks in the dew. In dawn light as soon as they can they do in a sense the waters in a sense the waters’ moving flimsy rays describing morning light on the other side of the isthmus “originates” fledging run against the wind. Replay a collection of strides along a shoreline. The terrible certainty of the mollusk. Racing across the night sky lit by their own roiling light. Somehow the trees’ tops moving loud wind restive, tranquil view we built keeping real.
Yellow gray yellowing dawn a thing to the south ignites slowly. Following tradition the workmanship of the sky paginates day. The favored air the ruining earth the people said then our cause our fault our “ultimate doom” an evening of masses by their common avarice walk slowly toward the deific dawn not varying pace. Awaiting word again. Fragile imaginary vacates the same never-ness attending the same sunlight there only the remnant. The whole earth stood spinning said Galileo said Persephone said Elvis the crumbling is only in my imagination.
A frailing of the palms individuates. The sky they said was blue like a lake this afternoon the same depth tunneling up toward the endlessness the sound of water in your ears.
Archetypally the lodge on the mtn. Material of commonality’s thin at best what weird traction brings them into orbit as crows madly convene on the dirty thick snow outside. Which fragile did they mean tangentially misfiring a wicking of the self routing direct to open window , blue sliver of sky. Nearly vertical walk back after all a kind of medieval salute our shadowy sleeves positioned in relation to other shades a floating body of individuals, therefore, practicing their agency. Environment’s irony the frayed and fraying violences says is ours alone. Spacious smiles of the underserved. Time which spread from the mtn to the gorge to the town propelling these folk to the top of the trail, flooding out the youthful analytics.
Jessica Grim has several books of published poetry. She was co-editor of Big Allis-a magazine focusing on experimental writing by women, and is Assistant Editor of Away. She lives and works in Oberlin, Ohio.
Photo by Jack McMillin