Sounds (second walk)

 

                                                            Slow example falling from cedars—

snow caught in streetlight, like it was breathing—
                                                                 sudden chill in the line

                                                in Sounds this morning—

                                                                        To be the mast of
                                                                                                such great admiral
           

              ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
                                               
                                                            and moved
                       
                                                out into the street

                                                            I watch the clumsy                                         
                                   
                                                grace of bicyclists in January

                                                            unblushing the sky, shamed of nothing
                                               
                                                                        suddenly my life

                                                            makes sense: I get along

                                                until the cloud just collapses—

                                                            I am standing on the freeway

                                                and cars move by like drunk panthers
                       
                                                            I am loved again

                                                like there was future again—                                                  

                                                            in street clothes   
                                    take small notes

                                                            on unfolding

                                                chorus. I can’t just

                        go out and buy a wheat-colored soul—an overgrown         

                                                path in the weeds behind the school  
                                                           
                                                            rough elm edges

                                    affection          rattled like a furnace
                                                           
                                                behind French doors—

                                                                        Red                 
                                                orange-red
                                                           
                                                            yellow-red green—

                                                I had wanted to be

                                                            a courtyard full of street lights
                       
                                    No cars, just       the sidewalk when it rains—

                                                            makeshift forests        

                                                where there weren’t any
                                                           
                                                            yesterday—the kind of line

                                    that lets you out into the world, the glimpses

                                                you get when the wall shifts
                                                           
                                    to windows enough
           
                                                for lights, Christmas

                                                            to stream by. I want to be

                                                            the picture of myself going out—

                                                the sidewalk when it rains. These sayings

                                                            calm me down. Rooftop tennis courts. Also

                                    Ice-crystals, halo

                                                                        reddish inner edge—

                                                            sun-stormy aurora—aurora at speeds
                                               

 


Eryn Green is a doctoral candidate at the University of Denver. A nominee for a Ruth Lilly Fellowship, awarded by the Poetry Foundation, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Word for/ Word, Painted Bride Quarterly, Eclipse, the tiny, Bat City Review, H_NGM_N, Rhino, Iron Horse Review, Pheobe, Esquire and Denver Quarterly.