poetryrepairs #196 14.01:008
ANNALYNN HAMMOND : Two Horses Are a Scorpion
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Come the Fall
Not shaking cold but cold and wet enough that the man drinking in the park makes you remember. Ice between your toes, that oddly beautiful and delicate crystal lattice stretched between greying knuckles: January in the snow bank and far from comfort. But today, it's just a day when the October wind and spitting wet is more than a red sweater can bar. It's the coming grey world, winter rain and hidden ice the colour of roadways and concrete. It's that knowledge that threatens, just as much as do the knife-edged maple leaves cutting invisibly against wool threads. The worry, that sudden death: the tremble in damaged ankles, the knee-buckle because of a small stone that might lift up, its blurred edge pushing against precarious balance. But here, on the bench in the twilight, red trees swi.mm:ing against the rain's tide, it seems there could have been another way of living. That man, his eye caught against mine, kept going, down to his brown bagged bottle. What he saw in me washed along on the current of feeling, and erupted briefly in the gully between his eyes, and mine. His face did not stay. Instead it fell, crumpled so that the skin folded along wrinkles and the bruise flaring all the way along his cheek raised quietly the transient image of some dark flower, long fallen from its stem. He pulled the bottle up against his chest, cradled the bag with his gentlest touch. Shoulder curled into the trunk of the tree holding him up, he turned away, slipped down to the earth and fell asleep in the lowering light. There are so few days perfectly aligned to human need. Days like that, here just a few in spring and su.mm:er, become invisible because you can, in that time, warm and dry, no matter how hurt, pretend splendid isolation and perfect balance. There is no one then, and no other, no memory, nor time, no need it seems that cannot be met in the vast giving silence of the world. Most of the year, all winter, and much of the fall, the earth blares and refuses such illusion. Hu.mm:ing and coloured the world shudders against you, makes itself felt; it can be sensed under a bare foot, even asleep, even nearly dead. Life under foot: the presence of another carries, like a virus, the dark shadow of self. The course of such a dis/ease: skin thins and we become permeable, irrevocably aware we do not really exist; and then, shaking with cold, even walking away will not suffice; an absent toe may roar from the dark place of its memory and there may be a fall, and under the world's i.mm:ensity, a giving way.
poetryrepairs #196 14.01:008
All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
The Art of Reading

Once you walked outside this world of dust, the sullen outcry of the wind and rain. Dreams distanced you from dawn until the birds exploded you in song back into the world of alarm clock, confused arsenals of red leaves charging the chilling earth. How many flowers have fallen now, do you suppose? You kick through on your way, footsteps tearing rich brocade. The weak-tea light of afternoon trembles with bells, echoing fainAy, then extinguished in the empty sky.
poetryrepairs #196 14.01:008
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Two Horses Are a Scorpion
it was and it was
8 legs, but where's the stinger? Perhaps in the bones, or the fly-swat tail. The eyes and nostrils definitely sting. I have told you more and more about who I am, but you still say I am not a horse (or two), and only slightly resemble a scorpion. A spider also has 8 legs, and Jumping spiders moan while they're mating. Is that more like it? You say you've never heard a spider moan. I say it is a sound imperceptible to the human ear, a small/big moan that only shakes the spiders' legs (16 now), and maybe the dust under their feet, or the petals of the dandelion, if they are on a dandelion. Is that not enough for you? Much more and I'll be a millipede, and I know nothing of their mating habits. No, I can't deny it, I am two horses, and two horses are a scorpion. But wait, you distracted me-- I forgot about the claws-- where are the claws? Go back 420 million years, and you will find everything is everything: I am a Horseshoe crab.

Poetry endangers the established order
of the soul - Plato

REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition.
-- Oxford English Dictionary

poetryrepairs #196 14.01:008
ANNALYNN HAMMOND : Two Horses Are a Scorpion
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