Peter Culley


The Book of Hugh

     
     falls open
     upon a bituminous and flaky 
     page of coal.  In turning 
     from it lit upon 
     a pink and stripey rock 
     found early in the walk 
     a rejected tumbled pebble 
     that had through the air 
     appeared polished.  Therefore 
     in a premature spring--the christmas 
     greens still up--the toads 
     took to the roads, driven 
     by unseasonal lust 
     through the marsh gas 
     and into our path.
     
           The dim stir 
     of chemical atoms 
     toward an axis of crystal form: 
     thus bear spoor, formerly loose 
     and fruity becomes 
     parchment, chimneysmoke appears 
     to hover, the distant shunting 
     gravel is through the 
     drizzle oddly amplified.  
     Likewise the trance-like 
     life of plants: as for 
     the fern summer 
     so, roughly 
     winter-- a fructose haze 
     foreboding not ever 
     a tender reading 
     that does not waver.
     Beside us on the lawn 
     a brown barette 
     flecked with gold, 
     the photo of a horse, 
     in my hand
     a pebble of no note, that had 
     gleamed in the mind only, 
     as upon the tracks 
     a red cent flattened oval 
     spun against the cutbank 
     and away.
     
           The ragged wall
     of social habit 
     connecting boulders, half-
     obliterated, etched over 
     aggregate a glyph-like 
     trace of hooves
     out of the quarry 
     the gravel truck's 
     girlish sway upon the little curve.
     From spray to spray 
     flitting light 
     the speckled finch's 
     yellow note above 
     the tufted and ossianic ridge 
     sepia splash along a margin 
     interior foxed, off white 
     endpaper snow 
     falling closing, scything 
     crow tinges blue 
     the green day's 
     republican starlings, sneering 
     ducks, fatuous 
     shitting geese...
     
           Personality
     an unseasonal squall, a "gesture" 
     (as in painting ca. 198-)--
     a runny mustard splat, a pig's 
     black tail, a little silver 
     hurricane, an omni-browed 
     Kali-- though 
     sleeve notes tell 
     a different story: puppyish 
     prospects considered 
     beneath sugary eastern elms, 
     exalted sleep, smeared mountains beyond 
     the desk, foreground's 
     heap of sulphur bestrides 
     the bridge's sexy parabola, 
     grainy against an edge 
     that is no edge 
     at all.  Would seek therefore 
     a motive for its use, would 
     attempt unbidden 
     a tunnel
     through the thick mantle 
     between us, the branch's 
     shadow on the shade moves 
     and is a bird 
     or isn't--too big 
     for a leaf certainly, though 
     similarly launched; inattention 
     fluid also, subject to 
     accumulation, massed 
     hesitations, blanks 
     aphasic interludes.
     
           Thus brick by brick
     the pyramid of stupidity 
     is erected, so mortarless 
     suburban walls, the blue screen 
     of a false spring.  Beaten 
     back incrementally 
     the peeping snowdrops 
     re-gather, rime's 
     erect buzz cut 
     atop a minor green shelf 
     of shale, omitted rain 
     yet fills the valley's 
     moist hollows, unseen 
     ripples athwart 
     the spongy ground.


Copyright © 1995 Peter Culley

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