| Recovery
7X7
I
The beginning of silence
is the sound of traffic or doors
the beginning of silence
is the high pitched close of doors
is the sound of traffic or doors
or the throat's paralysis
is the high pitched close of doors
the utterance in colors
or the throat's paralysis
and speak too much of color
the utterance in colors
in the morning unheard of
and speak too much of color
the unknown guest slips grayly
in the morning unheard of
a particle of birdsong
The unknown guest slips grayly
from the hall, greatly collapsed
a particle of birdsong
then up to a darker tense
from the hall, greatly collapsed
the strain is immobile as
then, up to a darker tense
where utterance is fashioned
The strain is immobile as
the beginning of silence
where utterance is fashioned
is the high pitched close of doors
Recovery
7X7
II
A lighthouse shimmers small thorns
contending with the drainpipe
for another hill but here
not knowing where to begin
contending with the drainpipe
are the earth tones of the viaduct
not knowing where to begin
noise carries when air is blue
are the earth tones of the viaduct
the existence of structure
noise carries when air is blue
a significance of blue
The existence of a structure
in corporate nothingness
a significance of blue
the carpet is riddled with
in corporate nothingness
a vast sea one cloudburst brings
the carpet is riddles with
electromagnetic rays
a vast sea one cloudburst brings
into the dividing light
electromagnetic rays
our neighbors run everywhere
into the dividing light
a lighthouse shimmers small thorns
our neighbors run everywhere
for another hill but here
The New New-Wave
A movie is just a movie
if you're a machine
talking to a plant
or Mathilda
by the time
she seeks refuge
with the magazine
clicked in place
metal and gunpowder
hardly what each needs
a dangerous web
across the paper moon
light streaming
through bullet holes
a triumph of affectation
I want to be happy
to watch the audience
just to talk
I will pay for my ticket
Hollow
Hollow is where the hills aren't green
Hollow is where the hills
aren't. Anything can be hollow
don't
the boundaries between hollow and full
betray each other? There is a color, the blue
of blue stars, far
in frozen space, the boundary of hollow
night is lit by
white blue flames
and in that hollow, all
is an equivalence, cold
and heat, I hear the insistent
breath of them night and day, seasons, sighs
this is the place
where vocabularies fail
all things
being equal
I think the breathing makes it so
clouds trail off to impossible clarity
to think in blue is clear
when blue is blue
a hollow wind surrounds us
I notice a paradox
turns into a belief
and the raw
of empty rooms, hard
times in the hollow
of a tree
a good place to plant a seed
the bones of feathers
are hollow for flight
plant stems are hollow so the leaves might drink
is the sun
more illusory than the moon
during the sound
of cupped hands brought together to the face?
space, and that which encircles space, create a sound
hollow
as a bell
© Roberta Olson
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