Three Poems | Jared Walsh

Este​​ 

What shall I call this​​ middle​​ space​​ where​​ forests​​ 

grow unawares​​ and​​ you can sing

without noticing from bole to wisp

of cloud or mountain purple faced

you amorous or no you lone

shattered or no do not see​​ 

the thing as the thing any more than the sun

sees the man whose shade it makes​​ 

a life plastered like a stripe​​ 

down a runway or a voice sent down​​ 

the blind chase​​ 

of purgatory will do no more

than be put where it finally lies

What shall I call this little bowl of life

where winged ships​​ 

use the reflection of the sun

at night to make their ways each to each

colors do merge to conflagritous reds

turrets and echoes of turrets be crucified

by the hands of​​ gods​​ and​​ the argus

sky​​ retells the retelling in black in silver

and in the violins of the nameless forever

warming their strings against their reeds

What happened​​ here​​ that one early morning​​ 

you whispered something that​​ I​​ should not

have​​ heard​​ and I​​ lack you​​ ever since

Cathedrals

Walls of feather grasses part the sky​​ 

and release us among cathedrals

the silence encloses a chant always

somehow sister to sister glass face​​ 

to glass face for love of one note written on​​ 

the obverse of the soul

long before time was time

be not afraid be not away be not

not mine they sing be here

and not there or be there in your

own way my lost one my image

the chapel walls come close to kiss

your hand and the god appears

and disappears in blue shades​​ 

an etching of delirium he dances

on painted wings that replicate

that number we remember too well

take me back to that place​​ 

where nothing dries the tears drown

in your mouth and pool perfectly

in your plaster dusted palm

and the oceans​​ scream​​ from the cliffsides​​ 

to be joined​​ with​​ each other​​ again

Allaire

I​​ write​​ to you​​ 

who will not stand still​​ for me to see

what word hangs on your lips​​ you​​ 

are​​ defined by motion​​ itself​​ 

there is no moment

that​​ does​​ not elude me

air grates in my nostrils

my​​ tripe turns to amber

this moment alone I seem to remember

Allaire she was called and the rain​​ 

was everlasting in the observatory

where​​ our bower was violated​​ 

by the aunts and uncles​​ of both of us​​ 

and parents no less and past lovers

making love completely robed​​ 

but effective like blind men​​ lighting

each other’s​​ cigarettes​​ in the street

I pushed a little harder and poof

she must have had her crisis in private

for she was no longer there

I tasted my lips and the taste

of Allaire’s lips had​​ faded​​ or had

that taste metamorphosed

into the actual blood of nightmares

for Allaire reappeared reproachful herself

among the spurned​​ 

Her replacement

was even more interested

in exhibitionism​​ I realized

when Allaire was replaced with Allaire​​ 

and the entire sequence began again​​ 

first the glass and then the rain and finally

the years​​