A season of grace


Sitting here under a tree,

the sounds of nature

begin to take on nasty vibrations.


Or perhaps it’s the helicopter

hovering overhead, above the trees



These constant reminders,

signal fighting signal,

are unbalancing.


I can see how Rimbaud got lost.

Those weird old kingdoms

on the edge of dust storms

clay-red streets, shutters closing

in hot white walls.


The disease, the nausea,

the unbearably deep calm

buried in every panic.


There is a madness,

and it has its own language.

Each of us speaks it;

Some of us proclaim it.


It can be an unfortunate series of events.


One response to “

  1. I love the phrase “those weird old kingdoms” and that entire Rimbaud stanza. I think this poem abstractifies a bit beyond my grasp in the last two stanzas, perhaps because of all the “it”s, but it also seems like that’s probably intentional to (what I think is) the poem’s project of talking about crossed signals and a world that’s hard to read. I also like the short lines here, which seem to reflect both reached-for clarity and the speaker’s hesitations.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s