April’s Poem of the Month comes from Waves and Trees by Justin Quinn
Street
On ne voit plus, on lit.
— Gilles Deleuze
A glance up from a book.
All still except the swoop
and turn of sparrows up,
a flurry of wingbeats,
small facets in a fury,
in flight around this fissure
that’s topped with stunning azure
and open at both ends.
They ignite a silver flourish
two floors below — the sun
for one short moment seen
in a square of tilting glass.
Between the buildings, panes
and all the storied eyes,
reflections and replies
go rippling back and forth
into the future, along
the street’s thick tarmac spine —
on either side they span
out to the hazy suburbs.
Verso. Recto. Two hands
weigh up the press of sheet
on coupled, fitting sheet;
they flex and spread the text
to catch a better light,
their body rearranging
things and itself, branching
into another body
until a further gaze
(the claim and counterclaim,
the months of waiting, the name)
unfolds from out of these.
from Waves and Trees (2006)
by Justin Quinn
