Two Poems
Jared Schickling
The Sun Fell
the sun fell
into a lamp
the sun fell
into coffee
into food
the sun fell
the sun fell
into the street
into sentences
the sun fell
into colorful worms
into cellulose and water
and a plague
the sun fell
the sun
fell
and could not get up
the sun fell
into fields
the sun fell
passed windows
the sun fell
on my parts
on a big outing
the sun fell
with the rain
Hum
a driven river flew the big humming bird
in its annual passing had nothing to do with it
never thought he was in the mountains splayed
a mystery like a cloud shade, opposite bank
a day is reporting a brain is perched
their own sorry name watching lucky heads
drawn, to what could wish all terrain vehicles
to live, more intensely emptied and silent
no rattle rattles imaginary, known
a name become real remains yet imaginary
as orange ants were biting blinded in visions
the endless visions ever diminishing visions
on the way into what was there to say
shrinking mountains under that sun
Jared Schickling’s recent writing includes the books Guides, Translators, Assistants, Porters: a polyvocal American epic minus the details (BlazeVOX, 2018), The Mercury Poem (2017) and Province of Numb Errs (2016), and he edited A Lyrebird: Selected Poems of Michael Farrell (BlazeVOX, 2017). He lives in Lockport, NY and edits Delete Press and The Mute Canary, publishers of poetry.
