Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
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ANDREW ALLPORT

Sarcophagus
     i.m. J.B., M.D., J.C., M.R.

1
Say I was there. I was there.
Only, a little after. Only, near.

Say I saw it. I did see. But not then, now.
Say I couldn’t believe.

Say I couldn’t believe
my eyes—they were a little late, say.

2
What began with a rock
falling, a flutter of a fist-sized piece

striking through the higher air, parting infinity:
as big as a breadbox

or a bookshelf, about the size of this desk
and of equal velocity to a feather:

3
: a wave, a wall, water vapor :
the outside rolls in : blankets as they say
the scene or face : one coast slides under another

Somewhere the object continues
                     in spirit as they say
falling. Begin with this premise :

4
Ascending, and already that word seems
significant: pennies hammered edge-wise
in the grains of a downed fir
across the climbers trail—
what are they like, what do they stand for?
I do as I have done, always: touch them
for good luck, their shining edge.

5
Weekend chainsaws bray in the valley below
the white apron of stone called Suicide.

I climb into view of whatever Recorder
records these clear, conflicting desires:

Toby is climbing with a noose today
as a faith experiment. Legs elvising in fear,
inclined a degree beyond friction.

An Above exists, he tells me, moving up
delicately,
unbreakable as an eggshell.

6
What is solo      a single stone, a sol
economy of self     a light life (as in lifting)

A lone, as in reason     I went to the woods
deliberately to live     or to not. Of fears

what need one   reason    not the need
subtract from oneself     one

7
He stood on the boulder rising from the sea
imagining the word whitecap as a mountain in spring.

Is man less capable than a forest of kelp?
If all elements conspire to our delight,
why should water drown its lord?

He stood in the mountain’s mouth, thinking
how alike an avalanche to thunder.

8
The route index attests to divinity: Middle Cathedral, Angel’s Wing.
The route index inclines toward evil: Devil’s Tower, Devil’s Thumb.
Our church is the church of the rock, he would say on Sundays.
It was true: a boulder had rolled through the apse, while the skyline
could be read diachronically as a hymn:
Awake, my soul and with the sun / my precious time misspent / redeem
The collective puzzle in parts, now joining (as in song)

9
It’s a bathtub   exclaimed the boy   made out of rock
at the grave of the child   emperor   you sit down
it fills up   they shut it     and you swim

The inscription reads   a bedtime story     here lies
what was believed   an incarnation     a son
two lives equally    mistaken   for a gulf
    

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