Jean Paul Sartre gives me his wall-eyed
stare from the back of his book,
down through the glass tabletop
as I lay on the kitchen floor
gazing up at him,
then out the picture window
into the dusky sky
and see swarm into sight
swirling gray masses,
wave upon wave:
each peerless crystal structure
an utter isolato,
its quirky downward pinwheel
through windless space
determined by the shape
given when the vapor
fast froze up above.
In an instant ten thousand vibrate loose,
emerge from the darkening clay.
With each breath in, breath out,
ten thousand more break free.
Each one flattens against the concrete,
shows for one second its unmatched shape
then fades into the warm wetness.
But there will come one
with cool blonde geometry
fashioned just right
to receive the other, soon falling one:
together to defy all melting,
begin an accumulation,
while starlings fly over
at three times snow speed,
and Sartre stares his look
down through the tabletop of glass.
Dave Worrell studied literature and philosophy at Union College in beautiful Schenectady, New York. His poems have appeared
in US 1 Worksheets and Mad Poets Review. He has performed poems at Chris’ Jazz Café in Philadelphia.
He is a fatalistic Phillies fan.
DAVE WORRELL IN THIS EDITION: