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.
Barge, Winter 2013
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.
Barge, Winter 2013
