(no subject)

[silverflurry.livejournal.com]

A Paul Klee Exhibit
Viewed in reverse chronological order

First his late trees:
blooms,
harlequin birds,

stems dissipating
into a purple cloud
or a head

all ballooned
on the strength
of having to be.

Not chaos, an array.
To become this
one has to unravel

from discernible life,
the fog and slow mania
permitted

from each suggestion
of structure a body
reclining on a limb perhaps

or a landscape
etched in hairline strokes,
each blade of grass, each tree, each cloud

alive to dismantlement.
Quarks, they say,
quiver with a secret charge,

the smallest there is
and yet, they build us,
their leaps of faith

bringing us
to our fundamental element,
forever poised

between the luck of birth
and the brightness
of what's hidden.

Jim Nawrocki
Poetry
March 2003