ditch,

the poetry that matters

Eric Beeny

Eric Beeny is the author of Snowing Fireflies (forthcoming 2010 from Folded Word Press) and The Dying Bloom (Pangur Ban Party). His work has recently or will appear in The Adirondack Review, Emprise Review, LITnIMAGE, Matchbook, Pear Noir!, and others. His blog is Dead End on Progressive Ave. (ericbeeny.blogspot.com). He lives in Buffalo, NY.

 

It Was the Truth Never Entirely Replaced


It was the truth never entirely replaced,
where we left it
to rust and looked off
into murmuring, pretty sights,
anyone would say always.

Don’t be afraid,
withering that some of them did
reason and remain you
likewise,
if you in each hour stood at a glance
bound together,
vanishing these visits
but at long times not coming back a while,
made strange
the feeling of doubt
you dissolve into.

The creature you reveal
to me,
deny to you.




Our Life, as Sincere an Odyssey


Our life,
as sincere an odyssey
or everlasting season,
fertile aurora,
children of women and labors of men,
we, our dawn-drowsy,
mechanical landscapes,
elastically abandoned to their slumbering
afternoons, heard least of all enough
and cheerful furniture for such
hurried statues.




Whenever an Effortless Approach from the Inevitable


Whenever an effortless approach from the inevitable
seemed to me one afternoon,
things for hours
: words, kisses, variables,
identities worn on, convincing,
even my idea maybe,
deadweight of the mis-
pronounced.

Based on what it was like,
but unsaid,
quietly stitched,
leaving hints.

Everything in life waiting beyond what we act out
with trick questions,
attempts, settings unknown to the ephemeral,
the correct hour.




Sometimes the Noisy, the Vast Clock


Sometimes the noisy, the vast clock, a sudden
gasp, or gap,
such awful
beautiful trees,
and there are
others, our lips into them
violently astonished.

If we had not been noticed,
privately pleasant,
surging with questions,
we transparent shades
shrinking in shock
with heart-shaped fists,
sensation minus wind,
spoken of, heard of,
afraid.

Of, patience indeed
weeping,
you couldn’t prove the most distant
limbs or leaves,
or do anything taller,
immediately
hesitant.




That We Are Just a Fear We Know


That we are just a fear we know, our breath
stretched to anything,
the us too small to let go.

We haunt us all, departed
hardly, our own
cost, our own sorts, curious
particulars
—the best we can.

That you and every last
chance I together
reward our astronomies,
abandoned solitude of us,
one another,
and born from.

It will be a long day
again, I woke,
speaking hardly to you, years
from then but glimpsed
now, ever so much
more than
maybe.


 

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