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About this poet

Andrew Joron is the author of the poetry collections The Absolute Letter (Flood Editions, 2017), Trance Archive: New and Selected Poems (City Lights Publishers, 2010), The Sound Mirror (Flood Editions, 2008), Fathom (Black Square Editions, 2003), and The Removes (Hard Press, 1999). He teaches creative writing at San Francisco State University in California.

Boreal

Across the stiffening pond, your steps
        send broken branching signals
Faultless as some harp-tuning 
    
        dedicated to silence: each note
Carries an interior candle of dissonance
        the dark calendar
Marked by a sequence of frozen suns

There is a season deeper than winter
Passing in these 
        tree-diagrams, & mechanisms 
Of common speech

Sleeping under the solstice, you may suffer
Recurrent dreams 
        as the wreckage returns its image

Unburied 
The harp
        a pelvic bone, turns in your hands

But failing (you—the player
Of a misshapen instrument) 
        to complete the world's anatomy

(That story was told in deafening peals) 
        or even to mimic this

Weather's argument-in-whispers, its subtle
        ashen-green 
Striations...

"Let waters once chaotic
        assume the form of a rigid plane"

        understanding things
        are furious in their motionlessness

If the laws that govern awakening
Come to resemble a city of blue spires

        you will not awaken soon

Copyright © 2010 by Andrew Joron. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2010 by Andrew Joron. Used with permission of the author.

Andrew Joron

Andrew Joron is the author of the poetry collection The Absolute Letter (Flood Editions, 2017).

by this poet

poem
The pilot alone knows
That the plot is missing its
Eye.

Why isn't this "ominous science" 
   itself afraid, a frayed
Identity?

Pray, protagonist —
Prey to this series of staggered instants.

Here the optic 
Paints its hole, its self-consuming moment.
It is speech, dispelled, that 
   begs to begin to ache.

So
poem

Mine to ask a mask to say, A is not A.



No one, ever the contrarian, to answer.



The moon is both divided & multiplied

        by water: as chance, as the plural of chant.



O diver, to be sea-surrounded by a thought bled white—