A a r o n L o p a t i n —

The storm wonders

1. Its understanding of the faith of fish

That all fish are mountains.

That all fish are fish.

That all fish gravel

in the grossness of the sea.

I still wonder, at times,

about the magnitude of such a claim:

that fish, in falling, fail to fill their aim.

2. Its understanding of the faith of flowers

(Cornflower, lilywhite, so on. . .)

Is that they are choiceless;

that choice is an obstacle to is;

the busy-ness of bushes, growing

fruit; & me, to pluck them down.

3. Its metaphor for something

The city stinks

of piss & paradise

is growing

over

lengthening

its chord.

It is a condition of perfection.

Birds

fighting

on the brink

of more.

4. Its understanding of the sun, its movement

The day dours; grows

dour in its dating:

daylight passes; pours

out rain:

the sea was somehow slow & fast;

the sea was somehow still & lapsed;

a toppling of thought careens, as thought

conveys its own careening, coursing

as a wave, at play, in stream.

5. Its understanding of the faith of trees

The coldness of the people

was a coldness of the land.

People on top of people.

And there were seasons once, we chorus,

though we can’t remember when.

Those tree-colored trees, reddening,

committing to a bashfulness in shade.

6. Its understanding of itself

Stiff, mostly.

Starting to be more.

The feet act in congruence

with something.

The fields & fallows shiver something else.

7. Its part of the whole

Still the winter carried on. We spun, we dug, we feasted without ration.

I saw your face appear in snow.

You saw my ankle half exposed.

We were sitting down & heard a noise that could have been just cracking wood.

8. Its understanding of the one who made it

In trying to write a storm, you write a thunder.

First: it starts.

First: you hear it.

First: your body bristles in its fear.

And the catapulting shadows? And the ears

of other animals who, looking upward, see

the coming near, the coming near, the — goodness — is it always coming near?

9. Its understanding of the flesh

10. Its understanding of the faith of faith

And if the dead are dead, how could they be?

If worry’s a form of prayer.

If prayer’s a form of worry.

If the self, dismantling, is mantling a new —

11. Its prayer to itself

Yes, yes, almost there.

The trees stand, and in their standing, sway.

A saying: This, too, is from me.

This, too, is my body.

12. Its questions to an unknown source

Well then what is there to say about the ways we look for answers?

And what becomes of you in this?

The world? The unkempt world?

The world that dies? Is dying still?

This sadness? This allowed frustration?

Lamentation? Desperation?

Are you lost? Or were you taken?

Disappeared? Or just mistaken?

Did you leave a mitten by the shore?

13. Its reversal

And yet, I saw the cliffs.

Flashes of fullness.

And what the eye

looks, performs its function;

functions as per form — look!

the eye; what? — fullness;

flashes of cliffs, I saw,

and yet.

14. To its lover, writing

I am thinking of the sea. Sea as vagueness. As nihilist disguise. And my surprise that this spurs on another?

The sea doesn’t think — or think of me — how could it? I, who hardly think — or think of me — am thinking of the sea and, in this thinking, I perceive a spray.

The sea goes, greying, as clouds come in. Cumulo-something. I, who am moving, cannot delay for long. Remember the waves, grasping, stronger? The reaches of our eyes held out at length?

I sit amidst myself. Am reaching slowly outward. Something slips through the thumb of my thinking. Not quite sand, but sandy in a way. The sea mistakes me for your hand. I mistake the water for your hand.

Though still, the sands, the sprays, continue. Though still, things closure on. It was in this condition (of surprise? of faultlessness?) that I first heard the thud of your arrival. Days, nights. Cold, passing. I didn’t want to end.

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