On Trying (to Word)

but transient, not eternal,
and intangible?

wishing for something deeper
almost always, an intimacy
with the coldest body

maybe language . . .

as if speech could ever bend
its back
far enough over to pluck
what is fathoms away

in between
and until the end

skins eyes tongues, we have

forever the unsayable
disembodied
except where clouds
use me as fingers would
to dabble in

or perhaps, finally, the mute
are more essential
to the puzzle floating the rorid waves
of ocean’s windows

only at the end of us,
the real cannot be spoken

-JCS

 

breathhelix (1)

DSCF0058

breathhelix (1)

 

across the windsward of a grey-black city,

no rivers hang their stars tonight.

only autumn in the alleygarden, yet ice

distils its darker moments

in transilient shadows.

branches, swept bare and bleak,

quaver abovewhere weeds lunge coldly

near earthquiet roots.

 

within a lighted window, a boy

scrapes white wax from candlesticks

while his mother’s fingers dip

into sky for purple stones. elsewhere,

on metallic stairs, anxious shoes

climb toward lovers, their hands

burning in yellow flowers,

and below, in darkling rooms, lips

embalm young eyes, innocent spheres

no less wet for their closing.

 

above the frozen silence, the walker looks up.

night sends him its crystal picture:

“thaw-into-slowness,” the image says.

 

how long forgotten, he wonders, simplicity

that settles our hearts, this quiet

caesura, ceasing us, the bright hiatus that

pauses our cities, restoring life

by slow lapse into empty calmness?

 

then, to his ears, a new voice: an aria,

tinnient on the glassdeep air,

a voice that echoes the simple birthsleepsigh

of our most peaceful stars.

 

— J.C.S.