[ToC]

 

FOUR POEMS

Trey Moody

A WEATHER

Snow falls thick like waxed shards of paper, white collecting flat over ground. Now reconsider walking. Trees don't mind, limbs no resistance, waiting to react till spring. Indoors, windows are erasures, at best. Worse, when shades are kept drawn, the world—purely physical: touch the desk, touch the counter, sink inside myself for lack of observation. Hummingbirds won't happen. Neither will melt nor peel nor scar. Waiting to bite, I palm a cold grape—the hand asks difficult questions.


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A WEATHER

Said sand molds shape, said a statue is a marker of time—that crop, once plowed, heeds product, was worked till work waned to sleep. Before, over mealtime meat we spoke to soothe future uses, shallow calls. Which was all we knew to do: swollen promise, eager ear, new duties unfolding like each new year.


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A WEATHER

Complex countertops feed heat: reflect touch's talk, which hearkens back to stop. Sunday morning and coffee pot. Tuesday evening but elastic. Information's information, we see so clearly. Two ducks drink water, wait, float. Wind listens, though I lack insight. If we make midnight, if we make mudslide, if we spell winter with a y. One day, my teeth will freeze with time, however hummingbirds interpret ten.


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A WEATHER

Why a. Why not bring bodies back to home. Bones before our tracks, after parks cleared leaves. Why radio. Listen listlessly, then sleep. Why weather becomes a lack—language suffers, like you. Paths, too, refuse use. Why department. Why soda. Five calendars of blue. Light lingers long as memory, but why winter. Music wanes, despite the view.

 

 

 

 


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Lisa Robertson: "[weather] is the rhetoric of sincerity, falling in a soothing, familial vernacular. It's expressed between friendly strangers. I speak it to you. A beautiful morning. You speak it back. The fog has lifted. We are now a society."