A Poem in the Margins of Brodsky
When the generation, O when the generation and the consequence
Construct the Thing, that the night before the day and evening past
Were just as much the responsibilities of Sun. We have made horizons
Into hills we picnic on and confuse all things for others: so reality is
Dreamed, our consciousness mowed lawns. A natural state unnaturally
Founded but deemed the same. What is Abyss? Why, This.
A Poem in the Margins of Stef Pixner
Chaos comes In and takes it All:
The order,
The love,
The things I want to stay,
And keeps them
For itself.
A Poem in Margins of Dickinson
An innate Dionysian reflex,
A chthonic resurrection
Of our primordiality
Toward death or what
Connects to death in
Our minds that our powers
Quicken. For a burst. Then still.
A Poem in the Margins of Gatsby
Thus, we are relegated to a contiguity that can’t contain us,
That we can’t outmaneuver- so a tension is poised: a natural
Friction to our liberty. All is limited: All is consequential.
Is advice stable in this cosmos? A hearkening for Order,
But what is Order? A diction. A diction of moral parity,
A diction to alleviate the disequilibrium requisite to moral anarchy.
Anarchy? Susceptibility to impressions, which expose
A vulnerability to Life, a want for Life. The sunset: all
Impressions of the sun identify with it, turn us the sun
In the model of our twirl of Life, as if we are the measurers
Of Calm and Upheaval; Informers and Knowers of the distant,
The awesome; initiates of the secrets we’re impressed by.
S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, New South, Decadent Review, Rejection Letters, Quail Bell, Dodging the Rain, La Piccioletta Barca, Cathexis Northwest Press, a few others.
Twitter: @terriblebinth