May 5—The Dow Closes Down 8410

By SUSAN BRIANTE

How did the fall begin? With touch? With naming? You were guidebook,
 misstep. You were hiking in Japan. You were thought, memory, dirt. You
 were the unmailed text. I found a letter from Charles Darwin in which h e
wrote of “pelargonium” (fr. the genus geranium) often blended with rose
scent. I read a poem by William Carlos Williams where he wrote of asphodel 
sweet as sleep undefined, under unmarked sky. I recorded numbers like a 
Kabbalist. I counted glimmers on waves, pines on the hill, tried to arrange 
this view from my desk. Numbers would nail me to the present, stave off 
death. You died and could not tell me what flower was made from your
body? While the Pacific lay down its dark syllables

so    hum

 

Susan Briante is the author of Pioneers in the Study of Motion, Utopia Minus, and the chapbook The Market Is a Parasite That Looks Like a Nest, part of an ongoing lyric investigation of the stock market.

Click here to purchase Issue 03

May 5—The Dow Closes Down 8410

Related Posts

Palm tree and building at dusk

Monsoon

URVI KUMBHAT
From my window I see a boy shaking the bougainvillea / for flowers. My parents talk of pruning it. They talk / of little else. The tree, spilling wildly past our house into / the gulley—where boys come to smoke or piss.

The Hundertwasser House in Vienna

Etude No. 2 and Etude No. 3

KIM CURTS MATTHEUSSENS
in Rome a monumental marble typewriter / ticked out their story into the sky: two lovers / devour time. she lay on the lawn near Trajan's / column. he plucked letters from her dress, / her hair, served them to her by hand, by mouth.

Image of an intensely green trailhead.

December 2022 Poetry Feature: Kevin McIlvoy

KEVIN McILVOY
On mine spoil. In debris fields / of asphalt and concrete and brick. / Upon sites of chemical spills. / Along lifeless riverbanks. / In clonal groves so hardy you / have to steel yourself for years / of killing to kill one acre. / Where construction crews rake off / the surface