Someone, a foot in hand, a wall, grab together,
Pell mell stucco and mortar for cracks
Between what we are and conceive.

The time required of the earth to bring forth her children
Year after year, the Eocene to the Holocene and the dense Ordovician,
Fecund in extent and duration which are somehow the same.

That the sound of saying might recapitulate all Ireland in her wail and travail,
Her travels and conflicts all comforted by the sun,
Vegetable surety, rain, air and light.

Tan talisman of ten eras in sand, blowing, settling, compacting
As for a stand some day for the weathered escarpment, the feathered survivor,
The blimp of our nature, flammable, impermanent, unlikely.

The grass of houses blowing, waving like flames,
Tragedies, carrying on, the sacks and materials, the races and cars,
Typists, jack hammers, round the bend, whip flashing the horse flank
For the back stretch, the back story flicking in the mud,
Settling as the tracks of the stereotype of record,
The ones documented in the flurry of losers, the diaspora of the once born.

The late gate entries at the ticket stalls with stubs for fingers, mouths for eyes,
Coal lumpen lava and the slag,
Farm factory dump.
Water, clean air – freedom not to worry,
The hurry, the cleaning, returning to breaking point again and again,
Losers as much as winners
Lend their bulk and momentum to the settlement and iteration of the series,
Recombinant, lasting longer, finding the glide line skyward and earth tied.

The evening light, the morning sound of someone in the kitchen.
She is good company,
Ambitious, worth the wait,
Glide of the glider back to land,
Silent and weighty we sit or stand
As in line, hands in and out of pockets,
Shifting foot to foot, eyeing cautiously,
Bored as the stand with its rubber wheels and confections.

Cog and scrimp for an idea worthy of the name,
Moon blossom already taken, tea time quaint and pleasant,
Afternoon nap, sports, gestures for stage and dance,
Composer, indicator lights, divine sanction, toast all about town.

In the midst of context, midshipman in a war,
Cattle in a mad house finding a place to sleep.
Dream of the hoary loan, the steep price of beef,
The guillotine of cost and duration
Ceased in possession, breached in surfacing,
The pallid light, a muted battleship grey or
Camouflage gaiters hanging from a hook
In the garage like a gun and all of the out of use stuff
That once was or should be for sale.

Are we worth as much?
Are we thin muscled aristocrats or bi-valves filtering the sea of her posts and violence,
The aftermath of preparation, post script and recovery,
Name of the navel, the nurture and future,
The girls and the boys going out in their cars, for sure.
Pleasure cruisers on the poop deck by the mainsail
Skimming the breaking waves with wind in the white sails
As the way to travel, the way to arrive.

For a few dollars more,
Open the chest, valve of the heart,
Suture of pulse and meat,
Expect the breakdown,
Anticipate the end and
On and on with space and time,
We reflect, clipped, sort of standing at our ruin
Like a rusted ruin of cable breaks and bridge failures
As skeletons for the coral and fish
To return and use.

By Rolf Stavig
1/23/22