october in april.

[notes from a compulsive list-maker.]

Sunday, April 03, 2005

Notes from the Northern Lights Truckstop and Motel


I strike the dinger for a room, a book, and a beer.
For eleven days, I’ve been carrying my silver self
on my back. I think of your question (little else),
What is the difference between a rational fear
and an unfounded one? So I had to leave polar fires
oxidizing. Listen, I buried my camera in heather soot.
Perhaps I am tarnishing; still I play and then put
the cloth to my metal. My dear, the trills I desire
are simply to still my brain’s incessant, bleak
arpeggios. Polish does not suffice and of course
you washed clear. I tire of this lens-grainy sight:
the film that shows only the grimace of ignited
trees, withered and weathered. I request its source
stay unvoiced—your limbs cast the senses, oblique.

2 Comments:

Blogger Michael said...

I like this poem a lot. Especially the "heather soot" and "polar fires." And it immediately places me in the mind of traveling, not just the title, but the whole aroma of the poem. I did read "polish" as "Polish" and not "polish" however but that's my own stupidity.

6:22 PM  
Blogger Michael said...

You know, I didn't even realize this was a sonnet until now. That's how good and subtle your rhymes are/how dense I can be.

But the important question is: where are the new poems?

9:19 PM  

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