Sara Sutter Poems

 

 

from Atlas Peripatetic

 

For future air no fine mist

atomized, how rich or lean

the sound of the cessation

of the infinite drone.

 

The body of modernity

without head or tail,

the sputtering finality

of the last car—

 

                    —the fall.

 

 

Often we will see

certain times in the past

clear as morning.

 

The plot will be emptied.

 

For now, as engines

turn there is snow

on the ground—

 

                    —I write this

                    with great authority.

 

 

*

 

Horizon-wide plains

     in trundle of city.

 

 

Horse burials above the spring,

highways once lined with marsh.

 

 

Aquifers beneath mountains,

     thin pasturage. 

 

 

                    Peat fringe of palms,

salt scrub, reeds choke

     open water.

 

 

Salt from fresh in animal reliefs,

fringe pools dense or tough,

                    plush and plaster. 

 

 

                                   Basalt,

sharply watered, pitch,

trackless and capped

     of any chaff.

 

 

                    Foursquare

facing tile of desolate,

overtopped with green,

a long dry,

                    a series of once.

 

*

 

What variants of lamentation

sung with closed lips.

 

What so called sound

made by the rapid vibration of wings—

 

                                        —a curious bird to see

   

 

               —weave so called

for the shape of the nest.

 

Ballad of the oceans between E

and F in grave or monotonous tone.

 

As in a pastoral composition,

utter or make low.

 

 

**

 

Glenn Bach is a poet and sound artist whose major project, Atlas, encompasses a wide range of artistic practice. Excerpts of Atlas Peripatetic have appeared in such journals as hutt, Free Verse, and Jubilat. Another project in the series, Atlas Sets, documents a series of ongoing conversations and collaborations with fellow composers and improvisers. Glenn lives and works in Los Angeles.

 

 

 

 

 

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