Archive for November, 2010

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“Some Implications,” by Kurt Ulrich

November 19, 2010

Some Implications

By Kurt Ulrich

1

Thirst does not believe in what
might cure and thus
destroy it. Thirst

concocts a dream of the ocean
dry as a bone, but
full as ever; and my bridges

never completely burn—thirst
prevents them from this,
gathers force with its elongated

figures of an evening
such as the talk with
El Greco inspired. Imagine

you had managed a meeting
with the utmost more
grace than you had expected:

the guests would never leave or they’d
seem to be hiding,
to have gone so quickly they would

seem either never to have gone,
never to have really arrived,
or to always have been, or

be yet to come.

2

Rafters of a type we’re less
than only a little
accustomed to, and devised

under the ice-blue
lights of an ordinarily
pale enthusiasm

for rote good humor, seem,
scaled, sturdier by
far than when, straining our

backs in order to
see them in relation to the
drapes and decorations

our usual homes entail, they
did little more than trace
the arc of the heavens; did

little more than the grass
might flow, that is; and
held no home away from

what is perhaps richer, graver,
more deliberate and thrilling
an environ, but which should

be sampled by and by, as befits
an entire neighborhood, and not
in such a manner as would

keep us from sleep, too immune
to a kingdom divided
from our fondest dream.

3

Today it’s that there’s not
really enough for us to merit
that splendid regard

of the luminous—were
there enough we’d be
probably much worse off than where

the whole thing stews today: under
something dark and crisp and
electric, cold, and heedless. I

have sanctioned these poems
exude charm, but nothing distracting,
nothing visual, expected or

cooperatively italicized. Clouds
are suggestive and familiar, and
find us at least most of the time

on our way to the building
in the rare clear city, tears
in our eyes as we continue to

expend our sway inappropriately,
toward the darling little flowers
who travel in schools, and toward

the women happily married, or so
they thought. Blush of clarity, tolerant
impossible private hue, our passions are

only and all for you, but then
you’re gone and the day turns
sunny, damn it, everything’s

easy to understand, everything
tags along after us, asking us
what to do, and paying us

a compliment full of deadlines
as good as a threat, while our children
turn pale as clouds, as you.

 

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