Perception & Leaves

Perception & Leaves

Perception

 

Can we give up our eyes and ears,

mouth, nose, and skin,

and find new ones, never worn;

then lie in the woods

for one day?

Leaves

 

To see the color of the leaves

is not to know them.

I touch, smell, and taste their veins; still,

they are like foreign prisoners

and I the dictator who detains them.

To feel the warmth of the sun means nothing.

I swallow comets, but no I have not

seen Einstein’s atoms.

To drink a skeletoned limb,

oaks of Muir Street, is no feat of mine.

I pull my collar to the horizon

and break my nose on a twig.

Back in the lightning wind moves as a glorified wave,

while I hold the pumice of a composite volcano yet

cannot release ash to wind. Though it sleeps

in my hands, hands that crush leaves.

 

Jeremy Ford’s work has appeared in the Duck Lake Journal, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Cosumnes River Journal, and River River Journal, among other places. He lives in New Orleans.

Mendocino Sunset & River

Mendocino Sunset & River

Mendocino Sunset

 

A breaking wave
rolls among algae-covered rock crevasses
and lifts kelp to the cove.
White wrinkles
wrap basalt shoulders,
statues in the sea.
Fragrant in the water,
  towing in the night.
The gulls active,
swooping—
One shout builds upon another,
while the half orb sun flattens
into the fog Pacific.
Sky reflects ocean
stone blue.
To be an old man
with a digger pipe
watching the sunset.

 

River

 

I lost interest in everything
a dry afternoon. Sun-stained
skin, sky too blue for eyes
beneath the steamboat pipes.
Listening to the river, listening
to webbed pressure in a dive.
A mother, fecund and unforgiving,
whose rippled arrows fortified stomachs of ancestors,
does not aim to betray descendants.

 

Jeremy Ford’s work has appeared in the Duck Lake Journal, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Cosumnes River Journal, and River River Journal, among other places. He lives in New Orleans.

 

Pin It on Pinterest