Peter Gizzi
Utopia Parkway
for the painters
The object is the space
where the lines are not.
There was this day came.
To be among cubic blue
and yellow sphere,
so happy there was this day.
Living in a room.
Living in the trees
inspecting the numerals
4 and 3.
The object is the space
where the lines are not.
There was this egg there
-symbol of life.
And varied slightly
from its original state
a painting moved
inverted on a wall.
Then a lion spoke.
The museum rocked.
The object is the space
where lines return
to figure then
to phantom then
a strawman in a house.
Writing into a field
when letters were rocks
where letters divide
and rocks become
a mouth.
The object is the space
where all trees house birds,
all suns a hat, and light
falls:
a complex of feather
and thimble, casket and thread.
Between laughter and a girl, a boy.
A boy a father and a tree.
A story of the beginning
or the beginning of a story.
How sky is apprehended.
How all small become quiet
and speak for a child
carrying the man
working the long pencil
until groove become grove.
The object is the space
where the lines are not.
There are birds and one figure
from the tower.
From the plains the city is
a loaf of bread
is the character _.
Who will answer the riddle
at the gate and who shall throw
the wrestler from the town walls.
At the feet of the villagers
children crept in white tunics
which were sheets.
Too many teeth to be counted
too many holes to be safe.
When the leaves returned
to the greenbelt and the grasses
were higher than our knees
fruit grew in abundance
and the sun also hung as fruit.
Copyright © 1996 Peter Gizzi
|
