THE INDEFINITE HOURS OF FRUIT
after marcella durand
The airport lays burning in a diary
of sculpted seawater. The headlands,
facing each other with a particular ruby
hued observation, fall behind the night
in shards of rock and tendon, awash
in hallucinatory warmth and the dislocated
green of vaguely numbered streets.
Visitors lose you across the southern
mist, pursuing only an icy wave of paint.
They navigate gentle circumferences
of cryptography with an oblong sense
of definition growing minute in their palms,
like a ticket in the underwater bedrock, its slippage
dictated by a small lattice of artificial runways.
All this is spread out in a methodology
of wishfulness, rays of vague space
lounging in the coastal distance. They're lit
by invisible spires of ice, a conduit placed
beneath a mysterious, extraordinary kind of metal
ship, friendly in its size, covered by generous
diagrams of slow oval fish. It's time
for exact speaking among the lucid
houses of trance. Time for the weather
to equal ourselves, spiraling through light
constrained basements, rooting its bloom
among the indefinite hours of fruit.
If we can bear such elliptic halving, time
to grow old and young both, bearing
a final circus, built in the center
of our furious snow-driven eyes.
Chris Martin is the swashbuckling poetry editor of Puppy Flowers (www.puppyflowers.com) and is ephemerally situated in St. Paul, MN. He will soon live in Brooklyn with his sister and near a girl he is in love with. He enjoys expired foodstuffs, the immaculately wistful Bob Seger, and propogating brain splode in its sundry forms. His work can also be found or is forthcoming in Lungfull!, Swerve, Old Gold, and Accurate Key.