L.R. Harvey Poetry

LIGHT ME preferably with the same flame that licks the bowl, by which I mean  may it be less a burning- up and more a breathing-  in. Brief in-dwelling of our lungs, may this encounter then become— with discipline, consistency—  habitual , that I might even be shaky in its absence. Let its very presence clot thick around the membranous    tissue, so thick the two are inseparable enough to merit a diagnosis— inoperable .  Let it whisper to me—dried as I've become— as it whispers to the barn-dried leaf, a nd further, might it say something  comparable, like, “from here on  out let your very breath be aromatic," fused with maple, almondine, or in this case,                                                                  You.   

  KNOW-LEDGE Worm-eaten, the guardrails  you’d erected provide now little  protection from the ledge of what you know, and yes,  it’s a long way down to anything  firm. This gives you—falling— plenty of time to appreciate the joke which was your footing back  then, and even a chance— if you dare a brief glance  to either side—to see your fellow fallen, those devious children who somehow slipped the death-grip of intellect.  If I catch your eye, top of the morning to you as alone we float,  together, into the open throat  of a bottomless God  on whom we’ll never thud

ENTRENCHED The root is thicker than perceived, far deeper too, unmoved by dirt and the many wary travelers  who took a rendezvous aware  the root was thick, deep,  and wouldn’t move. And see,  the tree provides us shade  we say, then quickly laugh away  the part of us that notices  how in a certain light the branches  look alarmingly like barbed-wire.  And you? No, you’ll never  pull it out. This much is true.  If you insist, though, best case scenario is someone sees you straining over it—a child, preferably—who wonders

NOT DEAD YET He hit himself tonight— and hard —as if he might  pry loose the poem  plaqued around his gums.  Is he aware it comes from deeper down,  from further in, (the hunger or the poem, that is?) Either way he must articulate  the bubble in his chest before he burst—at best — at worst become convinced that since he’ll never say it  right then logic indicates  there is, as such, no word worth fighting for. This is the final death, The fingerprints now rising on his skin are his salvation.

PORCH LIGHT Flickering, the light was light- ning in a storm which was not  a storm, our fritzing faculties diluting the night's reality to what would go down smooth with coffee on and the two of us cozy on the couch,  which is to say approach  the truth with caution,  self, your vision blurred by rain .

ANT Semi-colon on the white page  of countertop, your pilgrimage  suspended by a thieving thumb  all evidence now indicates belongs to me, was it for jealousy of your  innate ability to penetrate to the core  of things, or just a murderous act of boredom?, the smeared link  of your little abdomen not ink  enough to adequately answer such an inquiry, our many questions unconcluded as the world buggers on— hungry —probing for a period like a crevice in the cupboard

ROADSIDE LEAVES There is a dearth of knowing  here—this long road home— the questions thundering like freighters as they thrum the yellow line, hum by us  with their coveted cargo.   We murmur quietly amongst ourselves in their exhaust, slow  in our ascent to certainty and tumbling still unsure, if nonetheless—can it be?— flown a few feet forward in the wake of our encounter,   that is, the breath of the Unanswered Question on which we flutter.

FOLLOWING TAIL LIGHTS Notoriously indecisive, this road  of ours, tunneled in by pine—a slow,  vertiginous ascent. And per cliché the tunnel beckons with a light,  but what the cliché fails to clarify is how it flutters back in synchronicity with our approach, blinking out then back in sight as we are wound round juts and crags, if ever- towards .   Our vehicle is one inclined to hold the flicker much the way you might  a firefly—light concluded in tight fists—  but once again it briefly disappears around another bend in the road,  and we will follow it despite this famine for finality. Really, what   else is there to do?—the air is better  up here, and besides, at this over- pass we may recall how small  our worlds are, how high this faithful, inconclusive following has led us

​​QUESTIONS OF SALVATION I was, as all of us, woefully inadequate and unprepared. Who would suspect that on the heels of the placenta comes an odd unease with who gets in? Explanation: it is not for lack of desire , see, that her world lacks a certain integrity,   color a completion not yet gifted her developing perspective. And if I were to punish her for this deficiency, you would—I trust—consider me  sadistic, demanding heights to which her very essence cannot,  per nature of the climb, ascend (and once again, not for lack of desire.) Or if the ticket were the color yellow, say, she then would be—must I say  it?—cast down as one of the damned,  small refuse with the rest whose differing deficiencies disqualified their admittance. But no, she is cupped in my hands tonight, her undeveloped eyes scanning upwards, seeking, seeking. What I’m saying is—one earnest father to another— please  grant that this, somehow, might suffice.

AT THE EARTH’S CORE ARE FLOWERS How best to speak about the one who is beginningless when we must begin somewhere, a perennial predicament  which may (if partially) illuminate our penchant for the period— so long as we can land,  we tell ourselves, we understand exactly where to start. So t oday we land a butterfly on a cork board,  his wings pinned wide so that we might best resume  the work of our analysis, where soon  all will conclude that something here is missing, and the animating  One—much like this poem— offers no conclusion other than love  and   love                and love

COUNSELING I couldn't have said it any better: he is a tad bit  in my space. You’re right again: his presence might be deemed the root source of this neurosis, this latent but pervading  sense of suffocating in his everywhere— even this office air  is heavy with his breath. I feel immersed beneath his waters, and no, I cannot  name it more than that,  as you suggest. Really what I'm here for, then, is not a plan of escape—there is no space not his—but just to face  the Nameless on his own terms, like a fish  who needs help recognizing he isn't drowning in the immensity  of the ocean’s embrace.

NARROW GATES Your studying will not suffice  to pass the entrance exam of just  walk in , swollen with ideas as you’ve grown.  The threshold for admission  here is tight. Try as you might,  this prompt deters the intellect,  the experts those who drop  their backpacks on the front stoop, still young enough to remember  that truth is light as freed shoulders,  weightless as a coming-home on a Friday afternoon, or might we say an infant,  naked enough to slip through even  the slimmest rent in eternity.