I wander over folds. I see sheep
past the mountain, near a valley but not
in its crotch. Everything is dirty
white. Pennsylvania would be like
something good if it were
good. The architecture, it fails
to tell a story. Nothing legible
among the sycamores. All fall, foliage
distracts from the metal siding. It is false
spring now and settled in the joints of
buildings sagging with damp and bones
where they don’t meet up. After
assault, absent any healing, before
the survivors die of something else, there is
the animal smell of blood mixed
with soil. Abbatoir as terroir. This is
where we breed the terrible wine
stored in container boxes
beside the interstate. Everything
is boxcars and meth. Below us
and to the left, someone lit
a fire, thinking it how
to clear the rubbish, cook the feral
lamb, start summer, flood
the engines. This was maybe generations
back so I don’t really know why.
It’s said it burns, that it’ll be sad
forever but all who remain
are cold and committed to trails rarely
walked. Blue mountains, old snow, static
talkradio sky. Glitch.
Plastic caught in the forsythia, also
: its soiled white in the wrong
~ blossoming.
origami slope
5 thoughts on “origami slope”
Comments are closed.
I love to come here in the morning for inspiration before the noise of the day starts. “ Everything is boxcarred, even aging.” is not the only line that made my breath catch in my throat. I let “ Abbatoir as terroir” roll around in my mouth for a while and the ending, “ Plastic caught in the forsythia” set me to thinking about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, the gyre I never stop thinking about. Thank you for this Kristen. Wow.
Rebecca, I so agree! I come here first thing.
So excellent, Kirsten. Per Rebecca: many lines caught in throat, in soul! Love this especially:
Pennsylvania would be like / something good if it were / good. The architecture, it fails / to tell a story. Nothing legible / among the sycamores. / All fall, foliage / distracts from the metal siding . . . This is / where we breed the terrible wine / stored in container boxes /beside the interstate.”
David and I are possibly moving from Brooklyn to our house in PA this fall, and I’ll be looking for that wine!
The ending of this poem. Woowzers!
Stunning!!!