Summer; —Fatigue; —A Direction, Up; —and A Spreading  Out  Unlawed

By 'Annah Sobelman
1
 
—Yet  sitting  with so little
 
blood  leaving me to cause  this  fatigue ,  on top of the picnic table my ankles
are now over its
 
                              precipice    of
 
at  the  air  over  its edge   over even the hollow circular   and flat  thin stalks and
grass blades  growing fast
 
                                               with so much speed
 
              no hurry
 
I   can see  beneath  my feet  kicking into the summer
air   ——                              looking up   from   underneath  in  front  of  the  on-
rushing speed  of  a   cloud   throwing its   first   thrust-shudders over the top
                                 edge  of  the  mountain   like      I      thought
 
a
spreading out
 
                of  the    unlawed —    up  from    underneath    its
                white   cloud   edge ,   especially harvested  by  all
                              these  fir  and  spruce  and  aspen
and  pine
 
                        top   edges   jutting fragrant fierce with
 
      hot smell  ( spill-
outs   of
their    seeds  )
                       
                    growing     the   indent-
                    ing of   the    mountain   in their evergreen to
blue
           tone - scented  modulatings   , taperings   , moorings
 
which
the
      now  big  cloud   passing over
also  harvests
 
           push -
 
           
                             ing   some   kind of   lawlessness
 
 

2
 
 
   along           —  —  (  up    from
 
      my   feet  I’ve    stopped  kicking  ,  or  now  forget  to  kick  ,
underneath
   the   great white  cloud    moving
at  varying   and   breakneck speeds   —   Which  I
imagine
 
                              is    unlawed             though   I   am  not
moving   —                         imagine
        moving     out   from     its   nature            but   it
 
is  not    a
      law    passing   over    the air   waves   the satellite  dish   the
      meta-
 
                llic  meticulous   signals  ,  ,  )  —  I   am
losing
neither  a
little    nor    a  lot
 
              of   blood     —             over  the  dropped -
              down  landscape  thundering  along   its    applause
sounds   its  green  to   brown   to   amber  under-
neath   feathering  along  its   before-fatigue­   intricacy , which   harvests  the
 
            let    me come closer   in —
 
&
the   sun    ,        a windfall  enabling   so   much   of  it
roving     the   mountain  from  almost  its  very  beginning   to
its
 
                 very  present  height   ,      the world  surges
 
                  as    world    against  ,       then      dives

                      out   from   into        air and the  lightflow at
 its fast
one   &
only    speed     all   smashing  into
 
      what   looks   like  a  lumpy  eternity  ,   me  and  the  black
 
summer
       fly    in
                     its    engines  ,   a  repose   in   the
windflow        and   in  its
 
                                bumping     up
against  ?
And  in its  bumping  up   against .
Though    ,    I think
it    is    also
mortal    ,    of
   
        moving   ,   of    collision ,
        of  chance
 
                    encounter
                    until           their    currents  ,  until   their
 
wakes
         let
            you     in   ,    let     you     through    —

Copyright Credit: Annah Sobelman, "Summer;—Fatigue;—A Direction, Up;—and A Spreading Out Unlawed" from In the Bee Latitudes. Copyright © 2012 by Annah Sobelman.  Reprinted by permission of University of California Press.
Source: In the Bee Latitudes (University of California Press, 2012)