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photo allposters.com
pale blue sky, power lines, trees
and pottery bowls, glazes catching the sun. you think
of them
before colored markers and pens found a place inside -
just clay, red brown or grey
on the wheel, spinning around
the potter's hands as he dreams of the evening
yet to come, imagines his lunch
in a brown bag, pastrami on whole wheat bread,
the open air breeze from the window above. the slow whir
of a ceiling fan - many things
that run: deer, cats, the unleashed dog chasing birds,
chasing squirrels around trees, camouflaged by their bark,
the slow wave of evergreens on a berm
with its house underneath. inside, a woman at rest
in her bed breathing hard, his wife
at home, the bedsheets pulled up to cover her legs
unshaven for weeks. the thin grace of fine hairs curved, bent
or straight, resisting the flat press of flat sheets,
playing with crackling static and sparks -
so soft. he thinks
how much he prefers his hands touching her legs
running up and across, chasing her sex -
how much he misses that
sitting at work, the wheel which now makes
his moment to moment, his scrape after scrape
of clay that's not needed,
dyes and glazes and oven heat waiting as patient
as short, even breaths and tapping feet:
tap-tap, tap-tap on the concrete;
these sounds a chant of unseen things
and words never spoken by flesh into shapes.
not yet two round lumps with green and blue stripes,
and curved smudged dots. not yet
your useable knicknacks.
seven blue lyrics framed by the
darkness
i.
When I breathed in the blueness
it was air's absence
that painted my skin, made me see things
in the short waves of the spectrum -
grains felt as they tingled
and numbed, within and without.
ii.
Dawn comes in rose
but the death of a sun
is its glorious blue
before the stars spoil it all.
iii.
Hush!
Look away from the casket.
It's just make believe, all this make-up
a peaceful wax on his face.
He would have told you himself
that his life hadn't satisfied
all the dreams a man keeps.
As his memorial, light a last cigarette.
Blow its blue smoke toward the window,
feed the bare trees and the snow.
iv.
Candles filtered the night,
reached the end of their wicks.
Put them out. There's no more
blue in the house to burn up.
v.
Predict? I don't see time
through blue spackled lace,
through still, quiet branches
that don't scratch without wind,
through the silence of glass
and the dark everlasting.
vi.
Give her blue tonight
in place of red tints.
Cool, fresh-scented blue
to dampen the spirit
of her red fireball
obscured by dark smoke.
vii.
Gershwin is favored
by the magic I seek.
A medium to convey
all the emotions I take
into myself - your blue love
and my black of regret.
go down upon the river, black
go and watch, go and rest
within the water
all the river, fading sight
with dots of light, and insect wings
which bring their breeze
to many lovers
-wading in, knees then hips-
still in love, still with dreams
of water, water, merger
one to one, all of them
-upon the shores so many limbs-
their sweat and wings,
their breath and mint,
breathe in then out
to break a silence
black on black, point to point,
their bodies wash, a fever with
no colored cloth, uncovered dancers,
shameless bodies, thoughtless bodies,
sons and daughters, doubled over
in their heat, in their wet,
in their sweet abandonment
down upon the river, black
© T. Birch 2003. All rights reserved.
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