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Poetry

Glenn Bach

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Glenn Bach is a sound artist, poet, and educator. Excerpts from his long poem project, Atlas, have appeared in Chiron Review, Free Verse, Jubilat, and Otoliths. Glenn edits the interview blog, Imprintable.org. https://glennbach.com/

 

 

fire annual

Santa Anas’
boastful summer
long erased into autumn.

Wind swoon
of burnt manzanita
grainy
on the tongue.

How long
until fires tumble
from the hills?

False alarm
in the pendulum
of days,
sky dark
with potential.

Shower of seeds
patter this dry ground,
crickets clapping
in joy.

verge

The history of nothingness
contained in a map of the Earth
as a disc with no known edges,
sun and moon leveled in the heavens,
the grandest of life in the lake
beneath Antarctica, bones
of the woman
lying in repose,
her child’s skeleton
on a bed of swan’s
wing.

A tree falls
in Disneyland as a plane
lands on the ice at the South
Pole, engine humming
to keep from freezing,
for weeks the convoluted
clumps of birds dead
on the sidewalk
of decomposition,
these fallen dinosaurs, the air
in their hollow bones all blown
out, each a mother
of dull sheen, of babies slick
and bulbous, this molting
of blood, songs pushed
from the firm walls
of their flight, their feeding,
their nest.

Mistakes were made:
unexpected jets becoming one
with their targets,
unfolding in vivid blossoms
of flame relived
from every possible angle
of bullet-time, DeLillo’s
freeway assassination
in disassembled pixels,
Munch’s cavernous
mouth in the eyes of passers-
by, thousand-yard
stare of those
who were there.

Hoop skirts of ash,
shock of once perfect
cutouts against the primed
canvas of morning,
two prongs
of a tuning fork,
two rectangular shafts
of dark lightning
now a mountain of moon-
colored junk, smoldering.

Which way is south
now, upper stories once
shrouded in low
winter dusk?

This, an evening
that inspires the great
American novel, brittle east
coast air devoid
of Los Angeles particulate,
pediments and powerlines
in sharp relief.

Search the flawless
blue sky soaked
in the wet citrus of sunset
for a cloud,
a plume of dust,
a lonesome jet’s vapor
trail.

Nothing,
not even a V
of dark birds at the
horizon.

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