From “Atlas” by Glenn Bach

The fall of New York,
leaving the canyons of artifice
and the calculus of blooms
as we walk in our sleep, fireflies
in cupped palms, bees and their
drowning, this week a whirlwind
of weather slipped in
through an open window as keys fit
the steeplechase of locks
and shoulders find their coats
of Broadway and 115th,
flipped collars and checked
scarves framing fleeting expressions
at play across wind-bitten cheeks,
dispersing the thin threads
of words captured and elongated,
made firm in hand-set type, folded
and slipped into jacket pockets.

We breathe the runoff and the dust
of scuffling shoes, effluvia of insects,
hair growing imperceptible as bark,
cherry blossoms like WWII flak
in the sky.

Bricks across knees,
new words invented for what we see
emerging from suspended animation,
the light years of this continent
as we sew the holes in our pockets,
fill them with stones from both oceans.

But here the umber canyons, throbs
of gold taxicabs and all the trains full
of strap-hanging figures
with bodega-bought flowers
wrapped in cones of plastic,
children glancing up
at the giants
towering above them.

Originally from Southern California, Glenn Bach now lives in the Doan Brook watershed of Cleveland, Ohio. His major project, Atlas, is a long poem about place and our (mis)understanding of the world. Excerpts have appeared in jubilat, Otoliths, Plumwood Mountain and others. He documents his work at glennbach.com and @AtlasCorpus.