Online Exclusive

04.15.08
Two Poems
Allotropes

Over shimmered flats, ray and tarpon,
shimmering all silver  
                              light, titanium white

at the window, you remember
rowing out, past pilings

the sharp line of blue against the shallows
                       the soft color of horizons

aquamarines filtered the air that
still held promise, 
                     sediments, white sands
                                                   reflect  

the light streams across  
                              the bay, molten  
air, possibilities concluding
and commencing  
                   in collapse’s rush, 

the undoing beyond us, 
the bay at noon in August  
                                  all heat shimmers
minor disturbances
                      mullet rising, jacks  

strike from below, shadow fish
roll up at the dark forms  
                                 overhead, schooling

recombinant  
            forms, each point  
                               imaginary, the movement
from one state to another always  
verging, you would  
                         say, the window  
open to the bay

as spun forms of dust
radiant, radioactive 
                     traces spiral two miles
up and mix with sand

blown from the Gobi or Aral Sea, memories
of Enewetak’s tear, into  

the air’s rip
                 and flow
likeness from likeness
cleaving—

the two jays in the lime tree  
                       blue and black and slashes  
                  of white
the summer air rolls over us

commemorative and calling  
                       heat up, building cumulus
each day, spiraling  
               the drafts up

pelican, osprey ridden

and we having lived so close to it
                         that fusion, poised, ready to be released
a point where the cascades  
                                       would begin, one  
point among many, themselves

targets, making us  
                        part of it, the cumulus  
the carrying over, beyond, 
and raining down
                        ashen, even in August. 







Thule

so far
there
we thought you

would never return
would the ice
sing there

past boreal
after the setting off
the long arc

of the pelagic  
calling
and calling back

would ice sheet
seas
and sea tracks

mute in  
north barrows
the light

of what is
out of reach but
arrives or may

in some vessel
make a long arc
coming from

the rushes
rivers further silent
than their silver

scaled
windings
unknotted at the end

and then you were
not there
but far as something else

would be coming from there
willed, or willing
back

calling
though who would be listening
to it cross slate

sea and boreal
fir
coming as

a ship in wrack
ice sheathed a votive
vessel carrying

no light
its souls up-flown
the gulls white and gray 

James McCorkle is the author of several books of poetry, including the 2003 APR-Honickman First Book Award Evidences (Copper Canyon), The Subtle Bodies, and In Time (both Etruscan Press). He teaches in the Africana Studies Program at Hobart and William Smith Colleges.