Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Our Difficult Telling—Issue 61, January 2016)

Sam Ross
Two Poems

Vox Humana

This is only the thin finger

of briefest night in northern

summer. Is there a quieter

space than a precarious

sense of ending? The organ

stop replicates a galloping

of voices. Patience is another

word for separation. Dredged

from the sea, skeletal remains

become chalk every day.

Vox Inaudita

From jet lag, from all-sky, my mind is baled

and back to this: I’m filled with awe.

Time-travel is following glow-tape trails

down the stairwell, a fingernail flush

against a ribbon or tendon.

But I can’t feel my own beating heart,

even with both hands on it.

Hanging off the high dive, I re-encounter

each assembling whisper. When the moon

sinks below sea level, I know the veiled

code of mineshaft, how to hijack the jukebox

and repeat, repeat. Teach me to forget I’m lost here.