the wood

Stan Rogal

 

 

 

in the beginning was the wood weaved dark & barkish
a’buzz with innumerable bees in immemorial elms
here, echoes of light halloo through the pitch from the get-go
that root

           an ah-some sense of strict irreversibility

paper peaches are tears, mistakes are revelations

           follow the droppings of the black sheep
                      (a language of volcanic harassment)       

this is the machine set to replicate itself from raw materials
not so much a proscribed space as a field of
predominant tendencies

           one direction expresses order, the other magic
                      you need only stretch your hands to establish
                                 contact with the

invisible

 

 

 

Stan Rogal: I live and write in Toronto. Work has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies in Canada, the US and Europe. The author of 27 books, including 12 poetry and several chapbooks. A more-or-less conscious plagiarist, one foot in modernism, the other in the avant garde, a black belt in Tai-Chi.