L.R. Harvey Poetry

BECOMING A latent sense of vertigo  should be expected. So too  a vertiginous flux between  something like communion  and inapprehensible distance.  In good faith, we may even  go so far as to say that for  us, Your perpetual teeterers wobbling on the edge of fall   -ing wholly into being whole, attaining to a certain status of stability— here , that is— may even prove debilitating to our necessary diving-in.  Thus finding footing may— and here’s the rub—be nigh disastrous. Best lean into it.

IN WHOM WE LIVE Near imperceptible, this incremental acc limation to the presence: comparable to respiration, that monotonous  insistence of the heart. Let us chalk this gradual reduction in attentiveness to a certain  degree of overexposure. Label it a level of acquaintance, if you will.  One night, you may discover even you have fallen prey  to such a blindness of familiarity: there, on your knees, as you petition He attend you in your need. A fine request. Much like a fish who orders something to drink.

CIRCLE, VIA NEGATIVA She cannot seem to garner it sufficiently— with flesh, you understand, come shaky hands. That, and the point has lost its edge. Still, the fact remains: it must  be drawn. As such, she must adjust her angle of approach. She tilts the pencil as necessity dictates, shades the surrounding circumstance.  From this position of attack, she finds  it possible to neutralize what isn’t. It’s a start. Her hand begins to cramp  a bit, but she mustn’t stop: even the slimmest  sliver alters the infinite she’s after.  Really, a small price to pay. With effort,  time, she is faced with a faceless void. A void which, in its absence, is.

SPRINKLING — “Accept the sacrifice of praise from those who        call upon You with their whole heart.” *        And from us who call with some, not all, accept that the withholding is unintentional.  Yes, we confess there remains a portion wholly dedicated to the contemplation of how uncomfortable our knees are. We have tried to rip it off. Unfortunately  the skin comes too. And true, the hours after   this exchange have also claimed a sliver  for themselves. Selfish bastards.  Say, might a lack of focus be considered damning? There! You see? Uninvited questions, too. Allow us to re-affirm that the withholding is unintentional and does not reflect our eval- uation of the recipient in any way.  What follows is a request, submitted via  metaphor, which creating (in itself) admittedly  detracted from what is rightfully  yours. As such, forgive us that.  But enough delay: Deep-Run Roots, both void of thirst and parched for praise, if not a summer down-pour,  per se, receive nonetheles

INTERMIXED The lawn is green, and very much  alive. I have spread a bed of mulch  around the little Japanese maple, like dandruff off the purple  locks. The lawn is, as I said, very much  alive. I lied. There is a stretch of wilted blades around the maple tree, where I sprayed. It’s in a circle,  a diadem of decay. Still,  little shoots have found a way to fill the gaps between the flakes  of mulch. To further complicate,  one of them is a dandelion, so young and firm a spider has hung from it, wrapping up a wriggling gnat. That’s that. The storm- door is casting its reflection. God, me too? The mix is dizzying.

A LONG WALK This sock has rumpled  down, wedged itself in folds  between my sneakers  and my toes. There are  many things I’d like to peel  away. My false humil- ity. An inability to pray. They’re starting to chafe,  with my toes. This road  just keeps on going, doesn’t  it? Anyways, one day I'll  rip them like a scab. Till  then, best hobble on. Once done, I’ll break into a run.

A NEAR ESCAPE The intellect, as any older sibling who knows their work, had nearly closed the deal. You've been fooled—none of it is true—yes, you were adopted  into this mess. The light above the  altar assumed a carnal quality. Filing communicants became  a tie of sausage links, simmering in  the flame. It was impossible not  to suspect the priest, at best,  had been grossly taken, at worst  was nothing but another imposter. Who could we trust? And what  of prayer, when suddenly the closets  harbor not a single spirit, only air? The savior, as you'd expect, was unexpected. A warm, still, sabbath night, and the biological explanation for fireflies was less   than satisfactory. The place was thick with something thin. We suspected angels.

GO, AND OTHER IMPERATIVES To the ends of the earth? Yes, "where there's a will." Still: best  give it time is all I'm driving at. Speaking of ways, we're working at    making it straight (per the prophet's request.) Chalk the delay up to the fact  that the path winds through thickets much thicker than we thought.  That, and our machetes are blunt.  Still: attend. Down here! A remnant of us are hacking late into the evening. I confess we are a rather dim contingent, bright as the bulb  above a motel shower-head, it’s pupil  the silhouette of a fat, suffocated   cockroach. We too sporadically wink the world dark. Still: the light of the world. Accept our best attempt.

OBJECTS IN MIRROR are closer than they appear to saying what we’d rather not address. But yes, that’s you who's lilting down  the road. Your hair is matted  and grey. It's evident you’ve lost the way, though even if you knew the path you lack  the means to span the vast expanse. You shutter at the chance that no one (really) makes it home. Your shuffled steps are weary, slow. And what of hope?  Hold your thumb out, I suppose— submit to let him carry you across.

END OF TERM I have not gone “above-and-beyond,” despite your kind insistence in the end-of term evaluation.  Not to say I don’t aspire to an end- less ascent, but if I'd poked an early aperture in the dark- ness of divine enigma, I doubt we’d be here—or, if I were sent  back down, that I would make a good employee, my face  inducing long-term disability  as I stumble into the copy room, bearing the Original shouting that all will be well.

MAKING YOURSELF A BOWL You’ll find an ache that’s par  the course in scraping pure, and that there's scratches if you  go against the grain which no progression will exhume. Best start over with the coarsest grit.  Invisible impurities will surface  as you sanctify. Knowing this, do not be overwhelmed at their discovery. Continue to the core—  you’ll be surprised at what you find.  Still, what matters in the end  is that the vessel does its work. Is it firm? Will it hold water?