Ethan Paquin

IN THE WAKE OF FALLEN MOUNTAINS

 

 

 

                                                                                      Bond,

         Cannon,        Lafayette,

                                                                             Bondcliff,                         Moat,

                                  Lincoln,            Owl's Head,

 

                                                 Flume,

                                                                                                  Carrigain,

Lethe,                                              Osseo,

 

                                                   Tri-Pyramid,

                                                                         Passaconaway,
                                        Scar Ridge,
.
.
.
..
.
.
.

Fertile evergreens, (plant names, florae,                                                 .) and blindingly thick.

 

[things to do and done:]

..
..
..
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

 

O, requiem.

 

 

 

 

No more subject matter for Thomas Cole,
                                                                            Frederic Church,
                Thomas Moran,
                                                       Alfred Bierstadt

                         &c.,

if they ever came to these parts at all.

 

 

 

Daily the mirror commissions me when it gets the chance.

Tidal lines fanning from my eyes,
                                     skin complexion like a moving field of wheat,
                                                           sturdy hue of tawn dotted
with the small stamens of wheat-bulbs.

 

So many landscapes
besides mountains.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Learn to forget them
                        and start tilling your face
       for a sunflower patch

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

The world is now breathing full with its emptiness ­
                                                        broadened horizons, clearer sightlines.

Up in the once, there. Look, Dogen.

He and I sip coffee outside a tent and scan the not-there.

Do not travel far to other dusty lands, forsaking your own sitting place;
if you cannot find truth where you are you are fucked ­

cliffrock, granite, metasiltstones, phyllite, gabbro,

 

Names so full yet empty of truth.

 

Rock is slick and a killing instrument.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

The walk to her home in my sleep, and every night.

The way is empty, yet use will not drain it.

So each night, the empty dreams fill me

and I continue walking, entering the dust.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

Ethan Paquin is an Assistant Professor of Humanities at Medaille College in Buffalo, where he edits Slope and Slope Editions. His first book, The Makeshift, was recently released in the U.K. by Stride Books.

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