Sam White


CURRENTS

Stay, says the moonlight to the snail
I would if I could, says its trail glistening.

Beat it, says the lake to the eels.
Will do, say the eels, into waveform

of voices of fisherman grumbling.
Don’t cry, says the nest to the lake.

I’m not, says the lake
weeping Styrofoam.

Giddyap, says the horse in its bones.
Tallyho! say moss crusted stones.

Now you go? say the marsh pickers,
who once were travel agents.

Into this, says the unknown
travel agent.

Just imagine, says the polar night
from its chartreuse scarf dance.

Yes imagine, says the sea
remixing the performance.

As you go,
say the hoofprints rippling.

As you go,
say the hoofprints rippling.

 

 

 

 

AIR OF VULGARITY

Winds came & they were fucking full of chainsaws
& chainsaws were fucking & yelping, screeching
in treetops brought low by an orgy of engines & blades
mistaken for storm weather.
Now we know better.
For trees for roofs for roads for ground
winds came & they were fucking full of chainsaws
& chainsaws were fucking & spanking the sea
& the coastline wending kicked & thrashed
its tree-lined length like an upside down millipede.
Winds came & they were fucking full of chainsaws
& chainsaws were fucking in the kingdom
of screens crosshatched with slashlines.
And no one in the News knew what to do.
It was back to you Bruce back to you Kim back to you John
back to you Carol back to you Jennings back to you
Jack who could only address
his own smoldering dissevered hands & hold
what was left of his breath,
as chainsaws passed through the news studio roaring.
Which in its own way was great TV.

Winds came & they were fucking full of chainsaws
& chainsaws were fucking inexhaustible passion
until just as suddenly they withdrew
to silver green
skies.

Those of us still standing
drained of understanding & trees,
with only a preponderance of haphazard
clearcut paths we feared to follow
& for a long time no one moved.
People read books.

And then rains came
& they were fucking full of cameras & each drop
was awake & earth capturing
in this we were witness
& the cameras were fucking.

 

 

 

 

HOSPICE

no mind but hands
to hold the flesh that falls
in blue and blushing endings
as ever were those endings
signals expressions
of rooms of closeness
you won’t look through
until you’re older and alone
his notes show gray
pencil forests one gallon of milk
among vegetable seeds
and electric costs is him there
in sons walking the rabbit lawn
then the man of holidays

 


Sam White’s debut collection of poetry The Goddess of the Hunt is Not Herself was published by Slope Editions. He lives in Providence, RI where he works as an editor, illustrator, and Tape Artist. He is also the founder and Creative Director of Wooly Fair, a participatory summer arts festival now in its eighth year.

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