Embedded Files
the sure the fast the young
this change of course like a minor missile falls on the scalp
from long starched limbs or the sleek and indistinct object in the sky
trace of blood beneath the hairline
the cut is real, belief, clots the hair
like the sweat of anxious slumber
this is not how the race began
every tightly laced sneaker freshly broken
at the arch, the teal stripes bright landmarks
absent mile posts
to map the route
we began in multitude
remember? flowing over slick river stones
no possibility that we would lose the way
but some mornings the mist clogged the glass
we could only steer by sound
by the dark rush of oxygen
whistling within the canopy
as it passed us by
journeyed to its destination
another colony another plane
when the sun dried the air and the earth
split the soil into parched and dusty mouths
we stumbled not at all sure
which of the irregular street signs
now rusted at the base signaled home
library patrons at dusk
something wild has been allowed to flourish
in this far corner of the social study stacks
no explorers come here, not even the librarians
born in another past, he shakes his head
eyes for miles, he stands rooted
a spread of glassy leaves stretched
in tangled profusion hangs over
the ficus rising from the gray-white pot
they write in silence with borrowed pen
but their words are nebulae
red flowers hide among the anthurium’s deep green blades
the pinkish spadix surges from the center
all this in a small gray pot upon the low gray table
eager to speak, slow to listen
she includes everyone in her count
the long leaves of the saba nut
radiate from its stems, the thin trunk ascends
from the orange clay pot reaching for patrons
young and untethered, he cannot be held
he sees your game and refuses the turn
from this same adobe pot runs the gynura
heavy and wild-vined arms spill over
jagged leaves tinged with purple
drip downward and brush the gray carpet
with every mad pass of his bladed ship
he is scraping away the paint caked on history
these four plants cluster before a floor-to-ceiling window
where the sun dips beneath the treed horizon
even now upon the distant trees rests a dark orange
a blended band of gray blue, the heavy void of rain cloud
he is counting on the old confusions
but does not see the new lights erected
the library is closing
I shift in my seat
the volume is too vast
470 nanometers intersected
they want us to remember
as if the past were in order
as if the girl who I knew from church
a dark vest and interest in South American history
who sat on the floor talking up
to me, I felt nauseous on the stuffed chair,
never stopped, I see her words now
a flight of inky wings bobbing
between us like ley lines we get stuck in
wasn’t I drunk on cheap Keystone
in high school but in someone’s foyer
wasn’t Duran Duran filling that small house
nearby a light strobed streaked the lilied wallpaper
didn’t she speak of some distant future
with degrees and green lawns
that seemed hazily adjacent
weren’t her eyes so blue
they swallowed all the light
the eyes are still there bursting
is that why all the blue I’ve known
has drained and left
a pair of shining blue gems
we call it past but there it rests
stones cut with precision
polytopes extend beyond sight lines
so that a moment can cut through a life
dissect our trajectory
rearrange neurons like facets
what we thought intention turns
out to be reflection
Corbett Buchly’s poetry has appeared in more than 30 journals, including, The Interpreter’s House, Plainsongs, Barrow Street, Dream Catcher, and Rio Grande Review. He is an alumnus of Texas Christian University and the professional writing program at the University of Southern California. He lives in Northeast Texas. Find him online at Buchly.com.
Copyright © 2025 by Corbett Buchly, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.
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