Merging

The white suburban pulled into city traffic
and blended with the pavement.
The possibility of accident, the medians and stoplights,
hang in the back seat like boxes of water,
like the brake light that won't turn off.
She merges, goes from something to something else,
from the short brown hair and full red lips
to a white sports utility vehicle, dirt on the wheels,
the engine idling like the snore of a bear.

--

woke up with the power out midmorning becomes midnight
the electric clocks blank watches miss their little hands
sleep fades into teeth scrubbed to a shine polished
until they bleed a bit the time it takes to dress
shirt white and clean the jeans folded and stiff from
being alone with ignored legs tendons stretched

--

And the car merges into traffic. One car into the stream,
one leaf onto the forest floor, into the burning pile.
Something into something else, the rock into sand
from wind and salty water, a silence into tension,
the wheel into sweaty palms as the blinker ticks
like a metronome, the lights peer through the window
and blend again back into shadow.

It sinks into the bed, becomes red sheets, becomes the pillow,
comforter spread like the head of a tomb, mattress
is the grass we lay on in the graveyard,
flowers for the dead and mints for the living.

Into the shower, soap scum lines the tile,
bits of forgotten soap like fallen branches on the drain.
Melts into the waterfall, runs down the body like sweat and pools
at the feet, milky white from shampoo and oily skin
brushes against plastic white curtain, buckles onto
the back and wraps like a cloak, body becomes porcelain,

car merged into traffic and gone. Another stoplight,
a dry sink and wet toothbrush left to gather germs
on the counter. White car into the stream, white water
rapids meld into the parking lot , into the morning.

- Drew Kalbach

Teachings

Zarathustra said be not the coroner, be not the ink
at the end of a sentence, the small hand on the face of a clock
without numbers, a plate with shadows from early
morning sun. In the sky the tail wing banks sharp left streams
of white leaves clouds like a trail in a forest,
and to choose to lay in a field, the grass itchy and moist,
as the clouds roll by, a parade of nonexistent animals,
prophets and papyrus scrolls, is freedom.

He said to live in caves, to only burn dead plants,
to wear the skin of your relatives like a burial shroud.
In dreams he walks down rope bridges across canyons
split by dried rivers, the large rocks marking old rapids,
and on the otherwise an old abandoned factory
smokes from the windows and doors, glows orange
in the dim twilight sunset. The personal section of a paper
painted on the side of a clean white wall drips
onto the pavement. The grass becomes depressed, the weeds
slow start to whither and Zarathustra collects them
and places them in a wicker basket. The wind
starts from the east and carries some seeds down stream.

He said to light rafts on fire and to ride them
off a waterfall, a lantern for the fireflies that gather
at the tip of oblivion. The weeds in the basket are
the fuse, ready the sacrifice, the white cotton
robes and long black hair tied back into a pony tail.
He believes in steadfastness, even if low branches
scratch his face, he becomes the funeral pyre,
the sacrifice to fireflies, the beacon for moonlight.

- Drew Kalbach

Sewing Patterns

The space between a bell tower and a church
is steps. Rocks hewn in unison, one above the other
like a body sweating above another, the sheets
twisted and halfway on the floor. Patterns become nothing
in the distance, squares flatten out into overcast
clouds and lines converge on the horizon
like two birds kissing mid-flight. Without one eye,
the world is perfect. No double images,
nothing for the brain to fill in, just smooth colors
and transitions.

Depth perception is for the weak. Peace is in street
crossings, in traffic that does not stop,
cars merge together into plastic sculptures, their doors
melting like ice cream in the sun. Further up,
the steps disappear and there is only copper bell
resonating, vibrations on the hairs in our ears.
Everything becomes one in the distance. In the distance,
color disappears,

and the horizon drops like lead on whatever is left.
Without eyes, the world is taste. Bitter leaves, salty trees.
Water like pineapple juice, wind like cranberries.
Patterns continue in veins, the blue crisscrossing highways
of blood, the maps to our circulatory system,
tiny wrinkles on our fingertips the best way of identification.
Dried paint on the wall forms mountains at intervals,
like the Swiss Alps, or the Rockies,

and the further away the flatter they are. In the distance,
Mt. Everest is a flat backdrop on a white canvas,
blue, white and gray paint mixed to form something shapeless,
indistinct, in the eye but not part of it.
There is constant movement, the desk in flux,
stairs expand and contract with a wink, the bells vibrate
high and low. Simple work didn't solve sight,
the sand gritty and itchy, prayers toward the chaos
of falling leaves heard dimly over the vague hum of cicadas,
over the pattern of connected people.

- Drew Kalbach