Simon Tertychniy
Deco
the wind comes through the window,
and makes itself at home.
a poet snaps into sharp focus
as if by an optometrist’s trick,
the bee-like, sectioned underbelly
of his eager nib glistens with ink,
spread wings of pages like a bird mid-glide.
the moon,
a centerpiece of any masterpiece,
provides for portrait lighting,
throws poet’s lupine features into sharp relief,
matches the oracular calm of his B/W eyes,
makes him appear to be ready to deploy
the volatile ordnance of verbs.
his narrative arc taut, the genius wavers,
ad portas of the final revelation,
he stares like a man who has misplaced
his only key, and words recede like smoke
in a wind-flooded living room.
this framed print,
without a question,
livens up the wall.
celestial guidance system
“…he is perfect to whom
the entire world is as a foreign land.”
Hugh of St. Victor
a takeoff and you are taken off.
in the middle seat,
with nowhere to turn
you must turn inward.
a dash 8 slices thin air
like a cutting word
that splits the present
from the past.
each liftoff is an amputation,
a severance from what’s now passed.
homeland to landscape,
in one fell swoop, accrual of the past.
some views improve with distance.
with its litany of levers
to press on in distress,
the safety announcement fails
to foster a feeling of safety,
though it assures you
that in case of a forced landing,
the seat cushion might shield you
from a blow, or aid you to both fly and float.
the clotted clouds strung up overhead,
an abrupt mountain
a bit too close.
a blown-off roof view of the village below,
the dusty ribbon of the road.
in the abrasive brightness, a river shivers.
the small plane flies over the island
looking to land.
in the wind-strewn field
saplings bend to the ground.
the wind is wound.
stumbling onto the tarmac,
you squint at the topography:
what has been lost and found?