the soul does not prevent the available hand from singing
the soul is a piano a list
of potentiating signifiers
pointing out the line between
this coffee mug and this
deck of cards. the soul
is a nest the soul is
rain on the submarine
the soul is the soul is
one hand trying to be two
thoughts simultaneously
rehearsing a part in a play
as yet unwritten but sensed.
the way horses standing
in the dark are sensed.
the tree was cut down because
the storm revealed its age
and its age said this tree
is not sustainable no eventually
it will fall or a branch loosed
in the wind will maim a nun.
so when the men came to cut
I wasn’t there I couldn’t
say so long thank you you
were my soul those early
janitorial mornings in which
I tried to keep up with so many selves
the air was swarming with selves.
I parked in my spot and no one
not a single person noticed
the juggernaut I was towing on this
rickety dolly boom squeaking past
the birds harvesting twine.
and instead of the tree the birds
find my ledge and sing this speechless river
looks hard as bark in the early morning
sun painting the smokestack
hard as bark. the birds take what
souls are offered. and though I know
this I press it against my skin:
to be alone enough on a Sunday
afternoon to listen to the wind
separate what leaves are left
from January trees as the sun sets
around seagulls come miles
from shore just to be here
as the sun throws up its hands
because I don’t notice the old man
at the end of the drive waving
at nothing because I’m certain
I know what weather is coming.
so certain I can plan into the aether.
I can plan right into the red
picnic basket and walk away
from it and lie down on the hillside
full of my loneliness. full of
the voices that canter about
what winter was and how
we boiled our survival right down
to this moment cresting like the hill
I climbed to get away from
the private madrigal in the mirror
posturing in recompense for
what wasn’t said on a picnic table
or in the expiring light of a stairwell
or at least met with distaste
by the looming statuary of the soul
as the train started sliding
and with it the world
I thought I’d caught
the vixen. but it pranced
through the smoke of a thousand
cigarettes and never came back.
| Dan Chelotti |
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