Edges (Elements?) (revised)

I. Bellows

i did not have a fireplace
growing up, and the sound
of bellows was foreign to me. even the word,
i couldn't grasp the first time i heard it: soft, right off,
like faint praise that colors rosy cheeks, young.
trimmed fingernails tapping gently against a tabletop
of cherry.

then i heard the war cry
of the Romans:
in bello civili.

the flames it should be breathing onto didn't exist
in a hearth. the flames, electric blue ones
turning to the deep blue of the sea,
of the moment between turning off the lights and finding
the edge of my bed again.
more and more is being taken in,
less and less for me to breathe.

Magnets

i think that when i finish, i can head
out to a friend's place for dinner.
but not before i take what i have made
and purify it again, again, one more time.

you can never get it pure enough.

only thirty milligrams, anyway.
a thick yellow oil, barely a drop, like
a drop of olive oil, no longer virgin, sullied
by expectations and maybe too much hope

sometimes, by luck or the deep
pressure of my desperation, it will
come out of the sift already a powder,
ivory scratches that don't obey the rules

of crystallization, like strands of hair
thrown into a cauldron, waiting for magic,
for trouble, but mostly for dinner. i dissolve
the strands back into a liquid, get ready

to pour it into a slender tube, an extension
of my finger that i am careful not to break.
in there, everything becomes a magnet,
pulling to it more and more exacting

changes in the field of vision, of excitation,
each proton feeling the burden of being told,
don't fuck up. my burden, often. i don't wait
around to see if i've failed. i head out.

The Last Snowfall of the Year

in venice you found
the city sinking, descending
its own stairs into the shimmering
green water, its reflection, the
bits of coral and gold and
violet, broken up over and over
again, into bits of candy wrappers,
cellophane waiting to scream out
their symphony.

you couldn't tell if the water
was rising, or if the city just could not
pull itself up. neither, perhaps.
instead, only the inevitable beck
of gravity, laden with words,
made heavy, so heavy, with the
hide and seek games of children, the
suddenly waking sensation of falling
back to earth.

overlooking florence you found
god. he was a wiry man, spray
painting so fast that your camera could only
catch an outline, long ribbons of light
that framed his face, the whirl of
his arms. he is kneeling before his
canvas, and you wanted to become a moth,
if just for the metamorphoses
it would bring.

when you found your way back,
the snow greeted you, entrusting to you
a small girl, lost but not without laughter.
your words were few, because you had
forgotten what snow looked like, so you looked
and looked and looked. on the last
snowfall of the year, you wanted
venice to let go and sink, against sense,
into metaphor.

on the last snowfall of the year,
you wanted to be painted by the man
overlooking florence, so that as you
fell into the snow and let mercury, not
gravity, invade you, thick and heavy
and too slippery for fingers, or gloves,
you could tell the small girl a
story about the spring that is bound
to arrive soon.

Edges

I. Bellows

i did not have a fireplace
growing up, and the sound of
bellows was foreign to me. even
the word, i couldn't grasp the
first time i heard it: soft, right off,
like faint praise that colors
rosy cheeks, young. trimmed fingernails
tapping gently against a tabletop of
cherry.

then i hear the war cry
of the Romans.

the flames it should be breathing onto didn't
exist in a hearth. the flames,
electric blue ones turning to the
deep blue of the sea (of the moment between
turning off the lights and seeing the edge
of my bed again), because more
and more is being taken in, less and
less for me to breathe,
bounced all around me, charring
my silken hair, my gauzy stare,
the words that i didn't know how
to say.

II. Phoenix

they said it was a 7.8, but
really it was an 8.2. it came
at eighteen minutes before four.
everyone was asleep.

unlike hurricanes, we don't
name our earthquakes. a simple number,
one decimal point, must suffice

for our imagination of the dirges, that
hollow wail of dirges that
still ring out every July, in the

dampness of the night, where the paper
money will stick to your fingers as
you try to lay them down on the
sidewalk. they sometimes refuse to
be lit.

my city, flattened. and phoenix
is not the right title, for it
did not fly out of a conflagration:
it sank to its knees, then
laid down before it crawled up again.

phoenix is not the right title, for
it is Egyptian, and my city floundered
but was never Egyptian. having stood up
after an 8.2, it shouldn't
be worn down by a poor
translation, the imprecision small
but critical. when i think
phoenix, i think of the mountain
in my city that remains standing.

III. Guitar

the old guitar lies in front of
the fireplace, still without a fire.
it is out of tune, waiting for
your touch, to sing again.

it has no name, just wood that
keeps walking towards cracks, disintegration, a
neck that is bent, shiny metal
worn away.

it is waiting for you, where we
once made love, entwined in words.