Once Naked in Millville

 

I have no philosophy, no pattern, no signal decoding the noise. 

Palimpsest scars obscure the manifesto, lessening toolmarks.

 

All I really can’t know I learned in graduate school, robber fulcrums

tipping away from certainty, partial faces citing distant positions

among us, medium lacunae between finger and thumb, in aortas

stroked by indeterminate blockages, bubbles in the vase,

the glass of the vessel not static but flowing,

somewhat brightly, brittlely amorphous,

the breath of the gaffer closest to

searing an insight,

a halting of

the viscous

circle.

 

Almost perfectly nine years around, Alloula’s passing to Hinamatsuri,

we drew a world around us, snipped and cooling in the shop.  Waiting.

You have no belief in the blower; I no longer had faith in the paperweight. 

After your movement to a more fragile, readier hand, the once-cast shards

and shining dust are gathered from the corners, mixed with foreign sands,

and repunted into orbit.  The current shape remains true, substantial,

if truth sits still in the inventory, if it can remain on the coffee table, hold

down the blustered papers, press upon the word a simple united dichotomy.

Waiting and slowly flowing, blown yet not fragmented.

 

- John Buckley