Noah Eli Gordon is the author of A Fiddle Pulled from the Throat of a
Sparrow (New Issues, 2007; winner of the Green Rose Prize)and Inbox
(Blazevox, 2006), the forthcoming Figures for a Darkroom Voice (Tarpaulin
Sky, 2007; in collaboration with Joshua Marie Wilkinson), and Novel
Pictorial Noise (Selected by John Ashbery for the 2006 National Poetry
Series), as well as
The Area of Sound Called the Subtone (Ahsahta, 2004;
winner of the Sawtooth Prize), and The Frequencies (Tougher Disguises,
2003). His work has appeared in
Publisher's Weekly, Boston Review, Jacket, and others. He writes a chapbook review column for Rain Taxi: Review of
Books, teaches at the University of Colorado at Denver, and publishes the
Braincase chapbook series. xi. how even snow can settle on a steeple
Since when? Thinning, the boundaries tore
across a stain of white in the hallway, where
behind a door, the radio kept blaring: them raining fire again. . .
Then, static—white noise. White of the moth. White of
the face rubbed from a coin. Not moving
upward like a hand reaching
toward someone in the room. The radio, bleeping: "Ambrose, Ambrose"
bleeping: Ambrose. Subtones circliing like an overwhelming question.
Eye. Iris. Isotope. & in which meaning, what is it? & in
run off. & the manual read: MELTDOWN WARNING
The siren's soft blue light like money buried in the backyard.
Revealed in an x-ray, the transparent elasticity
opening both inward & outward—toxins in the body.
xii. lovesong for the thumb in blue
embodying the offer, thought wading in, warding both openings—
the casing of a shell, bullets held in a rotating strip, fit for
28 hours straight until night scattered along its edges
as though across the screen. & a scampering be-
tween walls was heard & blinds were pulled &
storm shutters placed on shelters now under
moonlight or a light cover of ash,
of what hovers above the field, framed:
the idea of space as a vessel / a fire escape, the boat.
buoyancy became the predicate to a lifetime of blueprints
mapped out in a basement. an abandoned shout for someone
a violent luck & a whole sample. the sun, an incessant thump;
check the watch. their scalps—check the children.
a violin! the way a spoon conducts the skin of men!
Then, static—white noise. White of the moth. White of
the face rubbed from a coin. Not moving
upward like a hand reaching
toward someone in the room. The radio, bleeping: "Ambrose, Ambrose"
bleeping: Ambrose. Subtones circliing like an overwhelming question.
Eye. Iris. Isotope. & in which meaning, what is it? & in
run off. & the manual read: MELTDOWN WARNING
The siren's soft blue light like money buried in the backyard.
Revealed in an x-ray, the transparent elasticity
opening both inward & outward—toxins in the body.
xii. lovesong for the thumb in blue
embodying the offer, thought wading in, warding both openings—
the casing of a shell, bullets held in a rotating strip, fit for
28 hours straight until night scattered along its edges
as though across the screen. & a scampering be-
tween walls was heard & blinds were pulled &
storm shutters placed on shelters now under
moonlight or a light cover of ash,
of what hovers above the field, framed:
the idea of space as a vessel / a fire escape, the boat.
buoyancy became the predicate to a lifetime of blueprints
mapped out in a basement. an abandoned shout for someone
a violent luck & a whole sample. the sun, an incessant thump;
check the watch. their scalps—check the children.
a violin! the way a spoon conducts the skin of men!
Leave a comment