Lawrence Eby
26. Machinist in the Snow
I’ve rigged the night to dig
shelter. Soil shatters
against the snow. I dig
for warmth.
I dig to keep
my joints from freezing. All
the icicles slack like bats─
this cavern of trees. If I bore
deep enough, both ice
and star will break from their
stems. Collapse into my body, there
is a balance here that I need
a home deep enough for me, shallow
enough for this material
above. When the
morning cranks into its housing the light─
I’ve arrived. Birdsong. Wind.
Me in the earth, waiting:
flood.
27. Machinist in the Snow
Concrete bucket the city that tonics
its greenroom to the sky
a gift
to itself these lights I
wander toward electric engine
turbine of day the forest rebels
or maybe just I in the blink
of rotation I’ve shut
the
whole
city
down
prowler as I would
prowl: the rattle of tools
on my belt my heavy
boots slush through mud
I charge toward
a border in an endless field of trees
move body move
as if you move the whole forest with you
the trajectories of everything together
as roots and branch in a soil
of no
gravity the wind
here has lost its curve when I
return this city will emerge as concrete
mountain, the curl of branches
whistling around its
charcoal lights.
32. Machinist in the Snow
If I lift the ocean in an invisible cup, the roots of water
would make a new home in the brain of oxygen. A barren
land emerges. Elephant tusks, radiator, the milk of all mammals
spoiled in jars. You emerge follow me
and where have I lost
the scent of the past. A television it’s time
scuttles the cracked, evaporated floor. Who
are you? The shadows you
have followed me till now then retreat always you
into the propellers of time. No light from the sun,
it returns home to the underside of the earth. A music
bubbles like soap have heard me
into my ears, a tambourine, snare. You with your
speaker of what I have left. I stand and what
now will I do? If you are here to tell me, then tell me.
If you are here to reset this body, then do so
delicately. The water is restless in its suspension. But this sand
is breathing again. To make one move, is to
terrify another. I cannot you will
do this begin
again again.
Lawrence Eby writes from Southern California and is currently an MFA student at CSUSB. His first book, Flight of August, won the 2013 Louise Bogan Award and is forthcoming from Trio House Press in the Spring 2014. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Passages North, Arroyo Literary Review, the Superstition Review, as well as others. He is the founder of Orange Monkey Publishing, a small poetry press, and has served as Poetry Editor for Ghost Town. He volunteers time on the Inlandia Publications Committee and is a founding member of PoetrIE, a writing collective in California’s Inland Empire.
Return to May 2014 Edition
I’ve rigged the night to dig
shelter. Soil shatters
against the snow. I dig
for warmth.
I dig to keep
my joints from freezing. All
the icicles slack like bats─
this cavern of trees. If I bore
deep enough, both ice
and star will break from their
stems. Collapse into my body, there
is a balance here that I need
a home deep enough for me, shallow
enough for this material
above. When the
morning cranks into its housing the light─
I’ve arrived. Birdsong. Wind.
Me in the earth, waiting:
flood.
27. Machinist in the Snow
Concrete bucket the city that tonics
its greenroom to the sky
a gift
to itself these lights I
wander toward electric engine
turbine of day the forest rebels
or maybe just I in the blink
of rotation I’ve shut
the
whole
city
down
prowler as I would
prowl: the rattle of tools
on my belt my heavy
boots slush through mud
I charge toward
a border in an endless field of trees
move body move
as if you move the whole forest with you
the trajectories of everything together
as roots and branch in a soil
of no
gravity the wind
here has lost its curve when I
return this city will emerge as concrete
mountain, the curl of branches
whistling around its
charcoal lights.
32. Machinist in the Snow
If I lift the ocean in an invisible cup, the roots of water
would make a new home in the brain of oxygen. A barren
land emerges. Elephant tusks, radiator, the milk of all mammals
spoiled in jars. You emerge follow me
and where have I lost
the scent of the past. A television it’s time
scuttles the cracked, evaporated floor. Who
are you? The shadows you
have followed me till now then retreat always you
into the propellers of time. No light from the sun,
it returns home to the underside of the earth. A music
bubbles like soap have heard me
into my ears, a tambourine, snare. You with your
speaker of what I have left. I stand and what
now will I do? If you are here to tell me, then tell me.
If you are here to reset this body, then do so
delicately. The water is restless in its suspension. But this sand
is breathing again. To make one move, is to
terrify another. I cannot you will
do this begin
again again.
Lawrence Eby writes from Southern California and is currently an MFA student at CSUSB. His first book, Flight of August, won the 2013 Louise Bogan Award and is forthcoming from Trio House Press in the Spring 2014. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Passages North, Arroyo Literary Review, the Superstition Review, as well as others. He is the founder of Orange Monkey Publishing, a small poetry press, and has served as Poetry Editor for Ghost Town. He volunteers time on the Inlandia Publications Committee and is a founding member of PoetrIE, a writing collective in California’s Inland Empire.
Return to May 2014 Edition