Hammers next door have erased
morning’s automatic goodness.
They’re triumphant selling
off my wounded sleep’s bits.
I take the sclerosis personally.
I’m in a borrowed house
driving at home head down
aiming not to be a guest for good.
I think of the morning passing
into afternoon as deeply as art.
Wednesday, it’s May, finches
easily loved spring off the edge
all hurls making it loss
and a cool vapor helps around the ribs
hardening meaningfully at the coming
moment of indigestion leaving is,
a dark hall I can see only me in.
It’s horrible how well we were met.
A ruthlessly written town so adorned
we never knew arrival. Jonathan Edwards
says we mattered less than the grass
that stands us. Still, we wrote on it.
It’s our agreement with hell.
Fra separated first to part her hurt state.
Then Michele to Maine’s rusted
blue barrens. She’s by a clean cold ocean
room now with Derek & the dog.
Elvers are in her notebook.
Fearlessness relates to protection
one way or another. You’re mere
again but maybe now
a prism of mereness
itching the outside to rise.
It was good to walk with you
through those ransoms
to get into the ground
firmly decided in the brain
of the world. Tonight again
I’ll dip a torso toward the bar
singing the joke to the hole it’s not.
A hole you can animal in plenty
but here people peopling
are equidistant utters, ideated
with nowhere to go but throats.
Emotions control so much space.
I admit there is whole day,
I just don’t affirm it’s any longer
to be young.
Composure you can’t trust
replays warm air. Distance is
somewhere in the empty light
on the moon - you look to it
as the floor leading you at the speed
the mind goes off. Those periods
have dropped in temperature,
out to the area somewhere to bay.
Just as well, we say, the heart
losing its quality of heat will spool
watching the living foliage silver
We are recency, built to debut
and debut. Changed to preserve charge.
We might as well go dressed.
For what sovereign sight stands alone
without a theme? The moon
we cannot go back to bursts expected,
a blue equal to memory’s vulgar syllable.
Observe: the image at its source I see
is a fist. Our job is made for us
to be thankful for
torments with a heroic attitude
bronzed & frothing, bound to
the side of the bled out hill.
But enough about regret.
Pronouns grown up fit the ground
there and there, handling ceased ideals.
It’s a ritual in everyone
you see you came from.
They continue kicking in
the airs for continuance.
We may no longer see a share
in the level of sacrifice
but the green spikes pursue
engaged in taking up
sacred physicality obscured by
the same old dirt. Betrayals won’t gather,
recollected as rain finds a grate.
We find pictures now are futures.
So I guess then that’s sun standing me
up where friends have never been
more beautiful in a cohesion that moves us
closer to ago that’s coming in quick.
Like this moonlight’s now is a responsibility
to be clean. Out here beyond the walls
compilations, we are constant faces thrown,
opened to compost to trick and put a heel to
the meaning of velocity
we now lean over, going away
with more than one body
swept of clouds.
An evening is after all a practice we have.
But this was our coincidence:
what comes for you I come from,
but it remains unclear
that there’s any martyr whose passing
the world would notice much. In absence
of such a moment, the greatest need
is not to walk from buildings that die
spectacularly but live never to be cornered.
I’ll continue to sit where I’m needed
at twilight & to put a bowl by the back door
to see what may come, while
some people are born born.
Brian Foley is the author of The Constitution (Black Ocean, 2014) & Puritan Landfill (Black Cake, 2015). Poems have appeared in Boston Review, Verse Daily,The Volta, Denver Quarterly, The Fanzine, Everyday Genius and elsewhere. He lives in Denver and attends the University of Denver Creative Writing PhD Program.