By a large stone thing, running, in fog & After sex, the news
by Ethan Gilsdorf
[ poetry - september 02 ]
By a large stone thing, running, in fog
Why differentiate between crying and tears
merely appearing from running
past the city's large stone things?
Involuntary water responding to wind,
That's it - from running unmoored from any pressing
emotional event, paroled from desk and chair
and text to night-strided streets and
the pleasing illusion of movement.
(Beneath the surface, beams of wasted heat
rush from grates. A river that encouraged
the original city still trickles.)
Like monstrous gauntlets, the structures
hoard their supply of quiet
with halogen-lit clenched fists, squeezing
noisy air into adjacent neighborhoods.
They welcome those who jog
through scrawny fog and their thoughts
scoffing the citizens redoubled
on the imaginary track, these golems
who ran once upon a time, missed the bus.
Like cotton clotting the sky snagged
on stone spires then shredding free,
running that's detached but in love
with a transient grace, feet padding
hand-placed, hand-tapped paving stones,
brow crumpled like a mountain,
thoughts circumnavigating the path
as a mourner's grief may halo a cathedral.
Too old to die young? Perhaps. Running trades
magic for fact, finds the smashed windows
behind their cages craving sympathy -
look at my knocked-out diamonds like
black eyes or lost teeth - running expects speech
to issue from the lips adorning every doorway.
Running says, think while not thinking, as one must,
about the next step, the next breath,
about finally separating from large stone things
after dark, about disappearing into
a charcoal smear, tracing an 8-shaped path
with breathless feet, with the body of thought.
After sex, the news
Where the bed ended, beyond the pillowed bunker
and blanketed sea, the war on terror, World Cup
and obnoxious soccer moms began.
We'd resisted, not left it on, then shortly after cleaning up
lightly pressed the red power button, as I had pressed into you.
The miasma of events entered the hotel room.
Yes, we'd have to dress, throw back the curtain like impostors,
address the responsibilities scrolling below the anchor's head,
the stock report and press conference,
the desire for luxury mounting, detergents
and S-curves and speed leaving behind
our lives intertwined, too brief without the world.
