A poem by Kyle Crawford, co-founder of sp ce gallery and third poet in our Lincoln series. One (forthcoming) interview with Kyle bios all.
Kyle introduces himself
glass
In a word, yes. Although here it wasn’t.
The village square met in the middle there
where all eyes were its focus—a steeple
rising above the tree’s shadows, above
the bells sounding hymns for time keeping,
keeping courage for tomorrow’s waking,
tomorrows ago remembered and todays
days away.
This was before the water rose. Before
the chunks of rock were heaved upon the
water’s way.
A single boat directed me, then.
Directions weren’t actual directions, there, where
my east wasn’t east as west wasn’t your west, too.
Despair isn’t ever despair without itself there,
and it wasn’t. Because rain makes want makes
us listen to its coming on or stirring about. It
considered us lucky, then, to live without it, or to
live with our made rain as we did or do or are
doing or have done now for days or days and days.
Still, it stood. Not a symbol but a steeple. All glass
but not glass, a steeple.
And then came the sacrifice. A village a village of
saturation for better days to come. To build higher.
To build stronger and higher than. A bubble of glass
swallowed it all up and up. The steeple not sad but
sinking. Not so much sinking but rising with
the water, then. Now look down to it, now look
down. Its glass is still glass but a broken steeple’s
just that same broken steeple.
Village ghosts are the lucky last ones lucky. Sing it with
them,
Words aren’t glass but are. A boat is a boat and is.
