Christie Towers

Natural History

The furry models of pistil and stamen
I can understand. They curl and bristle,
alive under plates of glass. Beside them,
someone has displayed a map of floral

ovaries, laid them out like doilies next
to examples of petal and fragile root.
They vine and travel, wiggle and flex,
they stretch and, at times, seem to scoot

along the borders of their enclosed case.
Further down, whole plants are flourishing
under dim fluorescents, proper names traced
on cards for reference. Life-like, every inch,

but for the models of the smallest things:
pollen magnified x2000 – looks like nothing.

canter(ing) 1-8

this heart
contains only
the rhythm of
horses pulling
the open air

into this vacancy,
the low light,
the unspiralling
the lemon
and lilac
this singular moment,
the new edge
turns, pushes in

some internal
cantering dawn.
how to enjoy it
the rest is easy,
a stack of velvet,
off to one side

so pale, the small,
so softly,
anything so slender
every morning
brass buttons,
off very quietly
tried everything
drew circles
the flowers, open again.
they tell me nothing

light sliding along
the land -- white
a ragged blaze

i walked into the city today
thinking of volcanoes
your body, how it interrupts
the sky

behind me
the sun rippling
copper, the red
spill spreading

the story itself
silvery horses,
water breaking
the wind pulls the wires down
so what, what happened

August 21, 2017

a series of noisy blues
fussing, shapes,
smooth flanks,
slipping away

down, digging down
the sky draws closer:
it’s dark in here,
the quiet, untidy green
slid back, half-asleep

what have you been doing all day?
now, blind, kneeling before the hidden sun