home | bios
Karla Kelsey
previous | 1 | 2 | 3 | next
A Tracing of Springs

Listing now for tokens, for order—

the sepal-flower grown

in back lots. Shrub and baseball bat.

Pinned. The pennant gone wavering now, gone into truck-

sounds and magnetic fields absorbing. It went and it goes.

We went and we go, not the would have, there,

umbrella hinged up like a wing

over-scouting and wavelets scudding.

Beyond the lot, vision caught my holy in the new saint. New

picture new page of the martyred. Mated. Dragonflies hover

and we topple

to the sound of purity given up

to our making. We can call if we must, the leaves in, canopy

shaking. This is sight this is sound. Paying it—

replaying it then. Where there are grooves in the record

our voices die into hovering

telling us maybe we are off -wind

streamed to a stammering. This I write. Tighted

into I am not so, not a seeming although there is

a sound and image accordance and though this

is an eye-piece. Pierced for the gathering, maybe, or hum.

Dragonfly anything to remember ourselves by.

When we say it, what do we mean, tone, curve of upper lip

by this I would coin it

cruel and glassy. So under the hollows we go

to find the holy wood, to back-track to moisture

and the lichen and the Styrofoam cup.

Capitalized into weather-breath. Berthed. Your notion of my

satellite, wind beating the rubberized fabric to a new sound

of textile and telling you this is a relation

among relations, air feeling October and the walk

along the ridge. To get to. Casting over two

by two from the window and wanting it all to be figured up

into sense for the X, for the apparatus. For the eyes

to tell to the ears beyond the black

and white image of a hatted man on his horse.

previous | 1 | 2 | 3 | next