Big Window

a quick glimpse of something beautiful

Sugimoto by Brandon Som

Of
the horizon we know
Very
little up close and figure
The
intent as a streamlining

Of our own inarticulate selves.
Recently,
I had the opportunity

To hold one in my hands. Let me
Underscore
its resistance to form.
My
fingers felt as if thousands
Of
miles were between them.

 

 

 

Then
they moved to the sea.
At
the beach they let go
The
kite string and the sky
Before
them seemed even more
Immense
and yet still
Leaning
on those instances
That
added up to the present
Sackcloth
of clouds and wind
Assailing,
suddenly all shoulders.

 



 

The
story of the bird is a girl
In
a devout grief against a sea
That
eddies because its memory
Of
the sky is at once collective
And
dissipating as it becomes
Sky
again. The plan was simple:
Fathom
both grief and sea
With
stones displacing each
The
way a wing does the wind.

 

 

 

Underground
disorients us
From
above which explains why
We’ve
forgotten so much of heaven.
A
subway car sounds like you
Searching
the silverware
For
a tablespoon, while tunnels turn
The
windows of the train to mirrors
Because
the opaque, in its refusing
Of
the light, affords us reflection. 

 

They
say in certain shells
You
still hear the sea.
What
urgency is there still
Left
in such long distant

Phonecalls in which the past
Is
in our hands by some
Rendering
tinged with loss:
The
sea in desperate karaoke

Disarmingly maudlin in mono.

 

 

After
this, bridges followed him
Home,
shirking responsibility, so
The
city was hamstrung. Telling him
Similar
dreams of sawing men
In
half, they approached the sympathies

That have made them the outbursts
Of our solitudes. Seeing something
Of
himself, he watched them return

To tender themselves at dawn.

 



 

The
essential idiom of the sea
Comes
to terms in the calligraphic

Coast. Sea brought, kelp dries
In the sunlight on the shore rocks.
Day
is a hogtying, a stark light
Drying
them out, so she fished
From
her day bag a tin of bee balm
And
the tide had its slip knot
And
the day moon its oar lock.

 

Overtime,
my lips were a kite

Tied off at the back of my throat.
Hers
were a beak evolved

From a diet of settling a score.
Godlike,
the sea swallowed

For the sake of form. Awe occurs
When
we can’t measure certain
Distances,
while our mouths open,
As
to challenge with our own immensity.

 



 

 

Among
the ideal forms
Complete
and hung past the veils
And
valences of the night’s sky
He
liked those which explained away
His
finding the old answering
Machine
with its tape still spooled
And
cued: she’d be late. These nights
He
put a book down. He walked away.
Ellipses
trailed him to the other room.

 

by Brandon Som

published in Octopus 8

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Filed under: Poetry

One Response - Comments are closed.

  1. Dave says:

    B Som,
    You’re my vato.
    DG

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