Welcome to “Poetry at The Arts Fuse.” A new poem every Thursday

from
The Book of The Night Sky [A BOOK OF MEASURE VOL TWO]
SIXTH CIRCUMFERENCE

many stars so little comfort. sound of shoes on brick sidewalk. air- bee in window trapped annoying- attempting to penetrate collar of buttoned now three times up the neck & checked again coat.

present presents presences present
gifts
each will a wall shelter forgives.
isolate. not alone. can lead to
isolation
favors the wind carries like leaves which are perpetual departure
how the air carries us fills us forever constantly departing. what’s left-
small rock covered by moss I walked past as a child -still there unchanged. next to a creek-bed that has overflowed countless times. countless beneath the slow step
rain today and everything an interval. space of days divided by light or dark between raw likewise air water soil roots edging downward or out spreading as a tree branching into air birds making use of each.
random perjuries like beautiful women who smoke. brilliant ineptitudes call to the light for always more
intensity forms on the horizon like relief clouding to darkness any sense of vista.
horizons close in opening. the present tenses in each limb each joint each cell.  whole days compressed into a moment’s departure- float up bubble-like from that other extent. the distant self returning as if called in from the yard
internal-eternal. vigilant dark from which Memory broods atop the nest-egg of this my soul now released into the true field
Now goes forth beneath the blossoming Light of this evening’s Stars. star bright star light I wish I may I wish I might
–fortune comes calling – calliope woman- spinning that curious sense of your own. can you answer? yes, I can…but what would be the answer to the answer man?–
gratefully the dead linger in my heart even at this point startlingly silly as this century gains in altitude moving itself as am I towards a single certainty. startling. silly. the adventures of being 18 or 20 or 22 become youthful. & in truth- sound. quick tune lurking in the back of a mind. grand silliness. the revolution. the end of war. there is a chance peace will come in my life please have some. peace. let me be 18 then as now I am 47. all seeds cast off husks shells dissolve into dust which aerates the soil. I am no more than. no less. what truth there was is. what falsehood poised on the husky shoulders of Ego was & is. old / young in each a circle vowel pulling to circumference the gravity of any life- so a-round. & I come back again court jester of Language we are and so push even as reality nibbles our ass at Her foundations- archivists- masons- quick stick of fingers between vast wedged stones of ancient castle wall into loose mortar ejected and tossed to the always waiting ground.
daily the habit of hands running across cold granite ignites friction.

Michael Franco is a poet, playwright and artist. His publications include: The Marvels of David Leering [Pressed Wafer 2017] A Book of Measure Volume One: The Journals of the Man who Keeps Bees [Talisman House 2017] How To Live [Zoland, Cambridge Ma. 1998]. He was the founder of the Word of Mouth Readings Series in Cambridge MA and was a board member for the Pioneer Valley Poetry Festival. He is currently a Visiting Writer for the University of Coimbra, Portugal and curator of the Xit The Bear reading series in Somerville MA.

Note: Hey poets! We seek submissions of excellent poetry from across the length and breadth of contemporary poetics. See submission guidelines here. The arbiter of the feature is the magazine’s poetry editor, John Mulrooney.

— Arts Fuse editor Bill Marx