Tower Sketch

Diana Senechal

Easy it seems
not so. Once
over the under
I saw that neither the soil
longed for me, nor the air.
Go strum yourself asunder,
I said, then stretch
taut each single string
so that chords may be raised, hard
and faceted. Tall, glistening in sunset copper.
Cast away the wobbly shapes,
the flimsy matter. No longer
revel in a single face;
even the best of plans
become lines when tilted in a certain way,
or a line, when tilted, becomes a glance,
resonant, as glances tend to be,
hopeless, as no line can have a hope,
pointless, stretching beyond all other lines,
even beyond music, even beyond
sunsets and thunder, or frenzied clouds of murky birds,
or all the rubble you brought hailing down around,
just by asking me things, telling me things about towers.

 


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