Thursday, December 14, 2006

To The Cult of Architecture

Sun crowns a branch. I send smoke rings
to the window pane, framing the curve of her,
dimming the light of her. I revel in a stare
at her forte light, let my eyes bleed just a little,

then turn back to my compass, the drafting table.
Beer warms in a wineglass on the shelf.
Silent, alone, alive, I put pen to vellum,
follow the triangle’s edge for one more straight line,

surrounded by the mess and light of my flat,
this one black mark makes sense,
I make another, then another, they line up
into a window, a doorframe, a garage.

I take a swig of exhaustion, turn up the heady rush
of Hendrix, make one more line, then another.
I brush a hair off the page, blot my marks
to keep from smearing, shake out my hands,

pick up the pen, pull taunt the T-Square,
the triangle, draw one edge
of the retaining wall, then another,
then another, then another,

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