Leveler Poetry Journal
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Landscape Variations

 

I come back to you, stunned lane, hoared by

the freezing sheets, locked inside the white

 

chapels of winter, boot pressing into your

slender gravels, your black spine – we drift blind

 

through puzzled combs of mist, a hallowed truancy,

this hour, its dark fluxing our veins.

 

 

*

 

Evening, its rusted sculleries, ice-shoggled, hasks

at the wooded ulnas, vowels scalding

 

our path ways. What else but this: the body un-

latched by night’s frequencies, a wind’s larceny,

 

its archives flushing the antlered wood, a noise

inseparable from me – irons gabled to the land.

 

 

*

 

A pond’s metal, my insomnia eye, the sculled

iris of crow. Black splinter, you travel lawless across

 

the convent waters, my tremolo, a toppled star

torn from hymnal attics. Dear pioneer, you ink

 

the pike lit surfaces, a felled cultic, hatching there.

Your unmoored shadow keys the evening waters.

 

 

*

 

What of the sycamore, a soliloquy of branches,

the endless casting of its prayer?  Above me

 

the sky aches in her sooted lung, and what is left?

My shadow rooting through the natal weeds,

 

stitched to their green seam, a sycamore’s voltage

at my back, this boreal fuse driving the body home.




Adam Chiles