Climograph

To be a valley inside walls.
To be revealed in nothing.
A bathtub floating.
A squid like a mess of bulbous lice.
The bubbles in the tub, the slab
of soap, the oat boy
hanging down from the cloud.
Untied, noticing what moves.

What is seen in the motion
and what is felt.
A formula for flight
bubbling over to hiss
against the windows of paradise
and the windows of those places
better left dark.
To be a quill trailing
out of a gored muskrat.
To be the circle inside
a swan dive, a node buzzing
through an unsung state.

The beyond goes only as far
as ourselves, she said.
The ocean seemed pummeled
with girls’ fists.
A general understanding of earth
made the windows of the apartment
glow and radiate a series of hums.
To be a wind funnel bent.
A cup of something strong
on the desk of an innocent.
A downpour caught
in a carton of flowers.

Copyright © 2007 James Grinwis All rights reserved
from The Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission