a poem by Andrew Brenza
Gossamer 1
as if air could shake
itself into being
geladas chatter
these spaces accumulations
of the same wale of light
elsewhere thinning the same
some-unthreaded-thing
at the edge of utterance
the same prior-to-
the-softness-of-the-thought a-
wander
as if air could shake
itself into being
variations of a field quiet
windless termite mounds
sharks leaping off the coast
of enactment
as if sound
and the thing that
holds it I am a prehensile
concert hall of the tongue
interpolated by the evening
news in every house
a burning room where-
by the rankling quietude
of the doorstep lingers
in the shrinkages of pronouns
in the shortages
as if sound
and the thing that
holds it the requisite
isolation of every
vocabulary but the forest spoken
into view by the taiga-stained
breath of forgetfulness
the steaming herds
of diminishment on the distant
hills a beauty better than yours
elsewhere thank goodness
(as if air could shake
itself into being?)
the cold seep of
brine pools