For the 13th of June
***
I turn the corner and enter another world:
the telegraph wires, stretched taut,
from pole to pole,
five horizontal lines – a 5 line staff,
sparrows are, like music notes,
sitting against the white atlas of the sky’s body.
A lonely house is steaming from afar,
the sense antonymous
to claustrophobia.
Power is a human condition, they say,
power is carefully written on the five-line staff,
power belongs to telegraph poles.
I turn the corner and enter another world:
vein cables, stretched taut,
from wrists to elbows,
five horizontal lines – a 5 line staff,
freckles and birthmarks
are sitting like notes,
are sitting
against the white atlas of the human body.
A lonely eye is steaming from a far,
the sense antonymous
to claustrophobia.
Power is a human condition, they say,
power is carefully written within the five-line staff,
power is a current inside the vein wires.
The observer is a silent lineman,
climbing a wooden pole,
then, walking the cords,
a ropewalker, per se,
a solo maintainer of high tension circuits,
a one who turned the corner once
and opened another world
between the five lines
stretched in the sky and someone’s forearms.
