Dan Chelotti

There is the torch and the only thing That will prevent us from using it Is whether or not we can allow Jellyfish in the otherwise Crystalline surf. It would be easy To dismiss this view as beautiful and walk away Because it is buggy and we forgot The spray, to cancel the conversation Because its ease is perilous with conjunctions, To not touch because the sky would Separate from the sky and the mothership Would fall through with a banner Waving in a language we wouldn’t Understand though the meaning is As clear as these intercontinental Contrails hatching mackerel sky Saying we are full we are full Of sound and fury, we are signifying Nothing. Damned universal law. Damned categorical imperative Elbowing its way between my hands And your face. The sparrows again Exploding against windows As a circle of men sitting outside The cafe while away their intentions With invisible motor tics they can’t Even feel unless the right empire of light Covers every last inch of them And brings to the surface the names — Those loves they chose To stable. And there it is: The choice — if only the metaphor Were more complex if I could only Adverb away my existence And say what a remarkable Sunday This is a perfect Sunday And turn my breath to stone. I’ve done it before, I spoke The language of sweating cavern walls And electric light. But I won’t go there again. We are all and only our distances And when we touch that is what we touch. Our messy shelves. Our sullen privations And overabundance of lemons. Our grief, our mountains and fields And rivers of grief. Our dismissals And the love we ignore when we don’t run After the sparrows because the sparrows Will fly away. My sparrow, fly away if you have to But know that I am coming. I am low in the grass. I am burning With patience. I am every song. I know all the math in the shore Says you shouldn’t but my distance Is yours if you want it. And it is yours If you don’t. Dandelions and honeysuckle Surround me, the world’s ineluctable fire Is looking right at me, and I am making my stand.

There is magic in decay. A dance to be done For the rotting, the maggot strewn Piles of flesh which pile Upon the dung-ridden earth And the damp that gathers And rusts and defiles. There is a bit of this In even the most zoetic soul — The dancing child’s arms Flailing to an old ska song Conduct the day-old flies Away to whatever rank Native is closest. Just today I was walking along the river With my daughter in my backpack And I opened my email On my phone and Duffie Had sent me a poem Called “Compost.” I read it To my little girl and started To explain before I was three Words in Selma started Yelling, Daddy, Daddy, snake! In the path was a snake, Belly up and still nerve-twitching The ghost of some passing Bicycle or horse. Pretty, Selma said. Yes, I said. And underneath my yes Another yes, the yes to my body, Just beginning to show signs Of slack, and another, my grasping In the dark for affirming flesh That in turn says yes, yes Let’s rot together but not until We’ve drained what sap Is left in these trees. And I wake in the morning And think of the coroner Calling to ask what color My father’s eyes were, And I asked, Why? Why can’t You just look — and the coroner, Matter-of-factly says, Decay. Do you want some eggs, my love? I have a new way of preparing them. And look, look outside, I think this weather Has the chance of holding.