Unpublished
Poems
©
2012 Broc Rossell
EBOOK
ISBN-13: 978-1-936767-13-7
Published
in
The
United States of
America
by: Brooklyn
Arts
Press,
154
N 9th St #1,
Brooklyn,
NY
11249
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Cover
art by
Aaron
Sing Fox. Book design by Joe Pan Millar.
FIRST
EBOOK EDITION
for
Lara
HOME
CONTENTS
Sans
Maisonnée
Smoke
The
Eroica,
or,
Even
He
Who
Sought
Refuge
in
Nobility
Must
Needs
Recognized
in
a
Torn
Score
that
the
Enemy
Must
Be
Purged
from
His
Very
Sword
Grace
Summer
Fires
A
Cloud
of
Faithful
Witnesses
My
Body
Became
Eaves
Bereft
of
Counsel
Lac
Virginis,
or,
La
Nuit
Faite
De
Briques
Helicopters
Putting
Out
the
Conscience
Like
an
Infinitesimal
Cigarette
Each
Sin
is
a
Disappointment
Vestigial
Sunlight
on
Symbolic
Logic
The
Rain
Seeds
a
Body
and
an
Invisible
Body
True
Superstition
is
Ignorant
Honesty
&
This
is
Beloved
of
God
and
Man
Conscription
The
Side
of
the
Page
with
Ink
On
It
Notes
and Acknowledgements
About
the
Author
SANS
MAISONNÉE
The
end
of
this
poem
Is
beyond
me
And
in
this
discursion
You
have
joined
yourselves
To
an
old
certainty:
We
love
each
other.
Fruits
swell
on
branches
Out
of
the
white
blossoms
of
your
Freckled
countries
While
bats
flow
Into
the
bright
failure
of
themselves,
Wings
beating
echoes
Of
this
poem’s
lines
The
tip
of
my
tongue
is
tracing
On
a
winter
windowpane.
In
a
new
stanza
We
are
pared
down
To
the
throat
bone’s
thrumming;
We’re
in
an
octave
people
can’t
sing.
SMOKE
Where
have
I
gone
That
I
didn’t
at
the
last
turn
Against
the
idea
of
magnitude
Toward
clouds
instead
Implacable
the
horse
bestirs
The
bonnet
The
bondsman
In
his
quiet
moment
Behind
the
teller’s
window
Opening
into
Jim
Harrison’s
foxes
Onto
the
silent
Salt-lit
days
after
the
divorce
Onto
the
apricots
Onto
elephants
Days
that
opened
into
windows,
Windows
that
opened
Upon
the
vistas
You
posit
behind
each
syllable
Each
stone
In
a
creek
bed
Circling
the
larger
idea
of
land
Wizening
grass-like
aspirations
Into
the
ambition
Of
utterance
Outlining
the
way
Scree
runnels
down
to
timber
Declaiming
its
silence
By
standing
Each
tree
defying
the
sun
Knock
it
down
With
my
family
With
my
time
alone
The
moment
I
end
is
happening
It
is
the
eternal
Voice
that
says
“wait”
“Come
any
closer
and
you
will
leave
your
feet
behind”
THE
EROICA,
or,
EVEN
HE
WHO
SOUGHT
REFUGE
IN
NOBILITY
MUST
NEEDS
RECOGNIZED
IN
A
TORN
SCORE
THAT
THE
ENEMY
MUST
BE
PURGED
FROM
HIS
VERY
SWORD
Spinning
in
a
drum
Sun
low
in
the
old
window
glass
Furtwängler
defeating
Hitler
in
Vienna
1952
What
is
the
poetic
context
Spinning
in
a
drum
*
It
is
darker
The
spider
rising
on
legs
long
as
bridges’
spans
I
always
seem
to
be
able
to
keep
a
desk
Or
a
plank
for
a
desk
Or
forage
in
the
alley
for
fruit
GRACE
you
cannot
escape
these
dreams,
even
if
my
broken
beaming
brain
puddles
itself
under
my
body
my
hands
are
dry,
your
hair
still
growing
SUMMER
FIRES
Beyond
the
flaming
pines
I
stood
selling
melons
Perpendicular
to
everything
I
love
Each
melon
like
a
note
from
the
Diabelli
Variations
Into
this
smoking
dark
world
The
sky
still
blue
I
flowered
above
the
smoke
My
skull
turned
into
paper
Fingers
elongated
El
Greco
Lurch-sailing
through
a
thorny
crowd
And
home
with
a
truck
bed
of
melons
The
driveway
at
dusk
is
the
real
home
the
home
sits
next
to
On
each
brown
brick
a
mute
brown
bird
Struck
and
still
like
hammers
on
strings
As
in
the
white
air
to
every
black
branch
Art
lost,
and
lost,
and
lost
A
CLOUD
OF
FAITHFUL
WITNESSES
Hope
is
a
form
of
penance
Like
an
oil
rig
Spouting
as
it
bores,
I
climb
to
discover
the
rock
Or
the
Virgin
of
Guadalupe
visits
And
labor
assumes
a
purpose.
Romance
purports
a
dialectic
between
loss
and
solace
But
this
clerestorial
poem
Has
no
house
Admits
no
refuge
Denies
anything
I
can
remember
MY
BODY
BECAME
EAVES
The
fraught
wants
more
Wants
it
strict
and
square
Like
harmony’s
pinned
note
All
the
wood
is
planed
All
the
cobwebs
are
empty
cobwebs
heavy
with
dust
Ferns
cover
this
But
the
trees
have
grown
too
tall
This
has
met
the
disfavor
of
the
ferns
They
swoled
a
promise,
bad
babies
They
spin
gray
broadleaves
out
of
that
I
am
strong
not
joyful
I
run
like
a
cup
and
a
rabbit
Object,
you
can’t
make
me
lonely
hylé
Somehow
the
water’s
listing
plane
is
an
uniformity
Its
single
dimension
its
own
alternation
Facets
and
ridges
echoing
shadows
on
the
water
Puckered
draws
of
water
between
an
eel’s
tail
and
its
wake
Shallow
shadow
trimmed
and
animated
Shadows
are
formed
and
modified
swiftly
by
bright
surfaces
hylé
The
calyx
–
Not
the
wind
Which
contains
it
Its
blossom
In
something
silent:
Hounds
of
joy,
an
open
wide
eye
In
a
blossom’s
dead
calm
Surrounding
my
slender
body
A
lancet
of
fire
That
draws
the
pond
dry
hylé
All
like
a
saw
That
bit
like
bells
Up
into
my
flaring
bright
orbit
That
unlocked
desert,
stripped
and
soft
Children
endlessly
born
of
chalk
hylé
You
are
only
words
And
you
need
the
shore
I
approve
No
world
for
me
Not
one
best
atom
No
defense
to
think
I
appeared
between
voices
I’m
with
less
through
this
You’re:
laughing
And
a
drink
hylé
All
you
spent
Escapes
if
I
write
A
poem
loses
an
idea
A
weight
From
me
hylé
Today
was
not
winter
Fog
A
black-and-white
sailboat
Casts
off
from
a
small
marina
Whiskey
percolates
The
boat
sails
I
become
the
poem
hylé
Again
my
body
became
eaves
Voices
intentions
plumes
They
curled
my
words
back
into
my
face
Fingers
tripping
Through
my
beard
Cypresses
wilting
windows
and
owls
Polyester
pillowcases
Ambient
sour
light
rising
from
the
street
From
the
half-carved
block
In
shards
against
the
ocean
my
city
Where
things
become
each
other
more
slowly
hylé
The
most
valuable
part
of
company
is
humor
The
honest
confusion
of
facts
spoken
in
a
joyful
spirit
If
this
could
be
stasis
I
would
marry
my
neighbors
I
would
plant
trees
and
walk
through
the
forests