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.
.