Two Poems

Driving to Dec—

delta-like outpost
south of here

sun spathe on fields
deciphered at last  

dear nothing, dear prayer
more scantness
grid of little displaced

there was audience, there is brave
like a microscope or roulette

we escaped but can’t
go and everyone knows


Small Air

                                             Antioch Hotel
where trains pause in the lobby     a strange attractor for debris
airpocket hotel its

bodies fall to the street
in a guttering flock  
and you not caring a voice
is thrown from the walls always
you besieged, besieged                                         hear the name Antioch/Antakya

how the museum recast that lost
ancient city & all you could do
was sit & drink in
the bar: called Halite Bar        the rim of a glass salty
& think of halite rock
its concoidal fractures millionfold
a seam beneath you.

Stare, drinking    hear    how the crusader Princes of Antioch were emptytitled in the end.
How the Antioch Chalice was not used at the Last Supper.


                             If you sink an object in Lake Erie
it will emerge beaded, a bonediamond.        Someone’s skull a spiderweb, imagine—
hard as the pavement trace of white outside    
              and downtown shuttered, its
centre all dug out & instead

a countercross/score of limbs/lines on the

real skyline and    numbness    a numb pale scoria lifting/falling    

and still so hard       that Antioch, Ohio
was the last same place before now.  And you sat in the same way, same hotel
        in the vitreous    luster    of you                     (yourself, sitting)
in a lean-to room    with a touchup and half-grey smile—

(What a battle what a bad winter a bad journey)

To vacant shapes in rocksalt                        cordless faces on the wall.

Jane Lewty