171. Caliber of Archival Confusion
in a slant and sloping
sunlight slips off the mountainside
copper with the effects of autumn
passing Annandale-not-on-Hudson
and John Ashbery cannot give a word
to set us down into sullen penury of mood
or the curvaceous mode of swinging
out of balance
a rock
would stop us
though we glide forward
through an overexposed landscape
no-one speaks between their metal capsules
on an incline we accelerate to take off into space
a light blue fading to haziness and we cannot
recall the exact reason for this expedition
domed roof of copper of the protruding silo
out of the feathered woods that do not speak to us
tires on the highway beat but broken out of order
the gentle sound is swishing of the air we knife through
throaty drone of the truck that wanders onto rumble strip
bare and leafless bushes in shades of nudity
remind me of bowties though there is
no reason for them too
and who had taken time to tie
them into those twisted shapes?
with the right crayons I could color this scene
but never draw it out
it stays where it is
humble in its indistinctness
nothing seems much different
from itself or its parts
everything is somehow
the color of sunlight
houses are white
with triangles atop them
and kept at a distance
so as to resemble
models of houses
or the landscape
through which toy trains
run in circles
that rarely cross
into figure-8s
below us upon a green
a flattened oval paddock
gate left open
and horseless
sweep of light of car of sound along the curve
a force pushing us to the outer rim
everything the landscape wants to save is thrown together
in a heap and flurry
light upon sky upon tree upon hill
upon road upon incline heading downward
into recesses of shadow sliced with sunlight
at the outskirts of the beginning
of a place which has a name
but we refuse to believe it
because we are at the top of a hill
in a flat valley decorated
with a cluster of static rollercoasters
a steeple pierces
everything in pieces but one
we believe that context imbues otherwise random records of the earth
with meaning
even in the muddle of a thought wrote down wrong
archives are representations of actions but not truth
reflection is itself a type of perception
the windows on the car
ahead of me are flat
and perpendicular to
the roadway aligned
so that I can see straight
through them to where
I will be in a few seconds
it is as if I can see
the future through a
small cardboard tube
held tight against
my open left eye
sunlight slips off the mountainside
copper with the effects of autumn
passing Annandale-not-on-Hudson
and John Ashbery cannot give a word
to set us down into sullen penury of mood
or the curvaceous mode of swinging
out of balance
a rock
would stop us
though we glide forward
through an overexposed landscape
no-one speaks between their metal capsules
on an incline we accelerate to take off into space
a light blue fading to haziness and we cannot
recall the exact reason for this expedition
domed roof of copper of the protruding silo
out of the feathered woods that do not speak to us
tires on the highway beat but broken out of order
the gentle sound is swishing of the air we knife through
throaty drone of the truck that wanders onto rumble strip
bare and leafless bushes in shades of nudity
remind me of bowties though there is
no reason for them too
and who had taken time to tie
them into those twisted shapes?
with the right crayons I could color this scene
but never draw it out
it stays where it is
humble in its indistinctness
nothing seems much different
from itself or its parts
everything is somehow
the color of sunlight
houses are white
with triangles atop them
and kept at a distance
so as to resemble
models of houses
or the landscape
through which toy trains
run in circles
that rarely cross
into figure-8s
below us upon a green
a flattened oval paddock
gate left open
and horseless
sweep of light of car of sound along the curve
a force pushing us to the outer rim
everything the landscape wants to save is thrown together
in a heap and flurry
light upon sky upon tree upon hill
upon road upon incline heading downward
into recesses of shadow sliced with sunlight
at the outskirts of the beginning
of a place which has a name
but we refuse to believe it
because we are at the top of a hill
in a flat valley decorated
with a cluster of static rollercoasters
a steeple pierces
everything in pieces but one
we believe that context imbues otherwise random records of the earth
with meaning
even in the muddle of a thought wrote down wrong
archives are representations of actions but not truth
reflection is itself a type of perception
the windows on the car
ahead of me are flat
and perpendicular to
the roadway aligned
so that I can see straight
through them to where
I will be in a few seconds
it is as if I can see
the future through a
small cardboard tube
held tight against
my open left eye
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