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Additional info for The Guns and Flags Project: Poems
Parts of a House And when a tenant drew up the shade instead of seeing things the world appeared, red and gold replacing planes of brown and the sun going down behind a hill to make value, its hour withdrawn in one gown from the backs of ﬁgures. Some ﬂed and some remained behind as the state of ivy on a wall but all were set in the same medium and moving toward a time in which the ﬁeld is colorless from one in which colors had only appeared, these to be called night and day. And when evening comes to tell the di¤erence its beads begin to darken and grow larger, no one is responsible for them or that they make away from any direction but the head tilts back on its stalk nonetheless to trace the life of night on the clouds, that it really was this way and also not, a distance being stripped of its sun .
It’s the better half, of being alone that is. How happy are the sirens in my little town! Beyond them spring is at work making the ﬁelds and the cotton pops out without a sound, slightly to the left of predicted blooms. It is an old joke and a very good one but the one about the sun is even better, someday I will know all of it and the yellow curtain will go through me as promised, we will hear as if for the ﬁrst time the sound of light on water, the traªc of ghosts, we will not die so much as let 48 the ground rise up to meet us and the hearing, the seeing, the shore swinging in to view all lit by ﬂowers, the water tightened by their presence and far o¤ the threat of autumn, boat-shaped and full of red leaves.
It’s the age of intercepted letters, the dent which solves the pillow; soon there’ll be shutters and last names for countries. But before the night is utterly here come colors of its immediate family, and in them the window stands for silence, then less, new words seem possible if left unsaid, the tall ones, the post-ultimate ones, a term for the parent who’s lost a child 52 and a theory as to how it still lives. And though the harbor seems to be coming closer it’s just that the clouds are at play in a time both sea and notebook, a ﬁght without shores where, as each thing takes its place, welcome to the end of the game.