Not News


Breaking and warming, breaking, warming,
warming, breaking, warming, warming, and breaking,

but I had to put some of this in other words
or you’d be able to see past the sound

that the whole page was breaking and warming
and probably, as I do, feel that now

you might look away, having sensed the combination
but left the lock alone. I understand and ask,

what else do you want me to say,
sunset light in the broad of day,

three years to the hour since we watched
a total solar eclipse, in the zone of totality,

it’s ominously and endearingly named.
I speculate from the rumor of my mind

that this bright and slightly orange spill
of starlight on the temporary ground

through a bank of clouds is different
due to the fire ablaze in mountains

one village away. Here I’d thought
maybe we’ll be spared, not by grace

but luck and decent protocol:
“first glue,” it means, proto-kolla,

the matter pasted first,
before the eyes get going.

We the species who prepares
to book it. (Waking, there’s a bon

voyage, coming to one’s own feet.)
From an end called the beginning

to the other, can I say it yet? —
breaking, warming in a strange gloam,

warming, breaking, basking,
breaking, heating, overheating, frozen,

wet — a warning of breaking, warming
a ball of Earth, the nerves early

and last, the middle numb-inert,
attached and indifferent to the loss,

attached and then alert to the loss
of time that was superfluous.

Christopher Phelps