Inquiry: Storm
Q: I wanted to show you an image, but I can’t remember what it is, can’t remember where I took it.
Was I at the Tanager?
Was I leaving the Tanager by the back stair
Was the rain speckling the back window of the Tanager when I looked and saw—what could
I have seen
A: Post-storm light along a rust-
draped iron door and the drain
of light makes a shudder, a glow.
Q: Was it the storm light draining that brightened the rust from ochre to cadmium,
cadmium to bronze, bronze to auburn, then to carmine, to garnet, to oak leaf, to brown?
The brown a hue matching the telephone pole reflected in a window speckled by dull gold
chipped?
A: Two men like rust lean
into the wind, together
they make a steeple.
A birdless wing or
his newspaper snapped open.
A winged thing trapped in rust.
Q: Does it matter?
Does it matter, the rust? Does it matter the light draining?
Does it matter the light reminds me of morning prayer, my father leading us in song as I try
to catch light in my palms? Does it matter the light made me forget to sing the prayer?
Does it matter? This birdless wing snapping on gold, brightened by the light draining before
the storm in the alley behind the Tanager and I am leaving before the rain falls so hard
she turns, her face mirrored in the window speckled by rain and worry?
A: All the way to the pier, the light
drains. All through
the Meatpacking District, the light
drains. Through and over
the two men, the light drains,
and the two men move
—a retreating storm—never
knowing they were joined
by a birdless wing.
Photographing Snow
Insofar as it snows in the city, the snow is white.
As white snow falls in the city, I can only say white for a moment, which is to say two evening
hours after I leave the subway.
Insofar as the snow is two evening hours after I leave, I have left her.
As I have left her, I have left her above the subway to photograph the snow before the white
goes and it goes by morning, gone just as she is gone by the time I return, gone into her
private enterprise.
Insofar as the snow has a private enterprise, its surface is involved in transforming the city
to white, which is, in a sense, a communal activity, though snow considers itself
a visitor.
As snow considers itself a visitor, I worry over it or perhaps over myself—gone from the
apartment and looking at gone things.
Insofar as the snow is a gone thing, it leaves gray slush and icy puddles with sinister bottoms.
Insofar as the puddles are sinister and a grey that may more accurately be called pewter, or
perhaps charcoal, we slosh around them—the postmen and I—after cresting the mound
of ice-packed snow at the curb.
As we struggle through the slush and puddles and wet snow, I am neglecting my task, which
is, what? To leave her asleep, palm on a cooling pillow?
Insofar as the pillow cools, suddenly a red umbrella sails over a squat blue mailbox like the first
clap in applause reminding me my task: snap before it goes.
Oh, How I Miss Illusion
PENNSYLVANIA = (ridiculously lovely hills + elegant cows) – (buggies at sunset + nuclear
reactors)
sunset + buggies = DARK HORSES TURNING SILVER
DUSK = prostrate wheat + cooling slag heap
A CLOSER LOOK = (random station + children + masticated shoes) ÷ a torn awning
THE CHILDREN'S GAME = listlessness – (stick + trash) ÷ (anxiety) sputnik
Strike x 100 days + arms race = LISTLESSNESS
HOMESICKNESS ≥ illusion
Q: I wanted to show you an image, but I can’t remember what it is, can’t remember where I took it.
Was I at the Tanager?
Was I leaving the Tanager by the back stair
Was the rain speckling the back window of the Tanager when I looked and saw—what could
I have seen
A: Post-storm light along a rust-
draped iron door and the drain
of light makes a shudder, a glow.
Q: Was it the storm light draining that brightened the rust from ochre to cadmium,
cadmium to bronze, bronze to auburn, then to carmine, to garnet, to oak leaf, to brown?
The brown a hue matching the telephone pole reflected in a window speckled by dull gold
chipped?
A: Two men like rust lean
into the wind, together
they make a steeple.
A birdless wing or
his newspaper snapped open.
A winged thing trapped in rust.
Q: Does it matter?
Does it matter, the rust? Does it matter the light draining?
Does it matter the light reminds me of morning prayer, my father leading us in song as I try
to catch light in my palms? Does it matter the light made me forget to sing the prayer?
Does it matter? This birdless wing snapping on gold, brightened by the light draining before
the storm in the alley behind the Tanager and I am leaving before the rain falls so hard
she turns, her face mirrored in the window speckled by rain and worry?
A: All the way to the pier, the light
drains. All through
the Meatpacking District, the light
drains. Through and over
the two men, the light drains,
and the two men move
—a retreating storm—never
knowing they were joined
by a birdless wing.
Photographing Snow
Insofar as it snows in the city, the snow is white.
As white snow falls in the city, I can only say white for a moment, which is to say two evening
hours after I leave the subway.
Insofar as the snow is two evening hours after I leave, I have left her.
As I have left her, I have left her above the subway to photograph the snow before the white
goes and it goes by morning, gone just as she is gone by the time I return, gone into her
private enterprise.
Insofar as the snow has a private enterprise, its surface is involved in transforming the city
to white, which is, in a sense, a communal activity, though snow considers itself
a visitor.
As snow considers itself a visitor, I worry over it or perhaps over myself—gone from the
apartment and looking at gone things.
Insofar as the snow is a gone thing, it leaves gray slush and icy puddles with sinister bottoms.
Insofar as the puddles are sinister and a grey that may more accurately be called pewter, or
perhaps charcoal, we slosh around them—the postmen and I—after cresting the mound
of ice-packed snow at the curb.
As we struggle through the slush and puddles and wet snow, I am neglecting my task, which
is, what? To leave her asleep, palm on a cooling pillow?
Insofar as the pillow cools, suddenly a red umbrella sails over a squat blue mailbox like the first
clap in applause reminding me my task: snap before it goes.
Oh, How I Miss Illusion
PENNSYLVANIA = (ridiculously lovely hills + elegant cows) – (buggies at sunset + nuclear
reactors)
sunset + buggies = DARK HORSES TURNING SILVER
DUSK = prostrate wheat + cooling slag heap
A CLOSER LOOK = (random station + children + masticated shoes) ÷ a torn awning
THE CHILDREN'S GAME = listlessness – (stick + trash) ÷ (anxiety) sputnik
Strike x 100 days + arms race = LISTLESSNESS
HOMESICKNESS ≥ illusion
