Literary Yard

Search for meaning

‘Remote Stations’ and other poems by Viator

By: Viator

Remote Stations

We are space
first of all—
the interstices
between the poles
of what is—

so must be
mostly of what
is not so primarily
that which is
nothing, leaving

us a little light
in the lowdown
where we might
seek solace
in the solid

bedrock, lying
down on the cool
stone soft as
feathers, fresh
as laundered linen

to our needy skin
whose nerves will
feel the first snap,
the buckling and pop
of the stretched thin

that is the bulk
of substance mainly
nothing, something
not much upon which
to pin the hopes

for solid backing
and basing while embarked
upon the everyday
that jostles us, that
same linen drying

upon a line, a thread after all
attached only by a knot
of fibers loosely woven
upon the wind of little
stuff of which we are a part.


I, Current Version

Whole and shred,
simile of self

ligament to
the left behind

reaches from
Chang to Eng

who nod to
each other

across the gap
widening over seconds

as mountains wear
to sea and fleeing sand

roots dissolved to their
leaves that scatter

so do not remember
their sources, only

know their difference—
unlike I and I

even as the flesh
of years distends

and like lessens
to taut skin and its

lengthening tears
that will separate

so all sundered
may become a silent one.



From its inverted horizon
grows a drop from rind
to sphere and finally bulge

a clear cool sun going down
as it comes up in its inverse world
ruling for a moment, surveying

all with lucid eye, descending
to the depths—for it no steel trap—
until the local god notices the dawn

and tightens the forgiving tap.



A name is our conceit,
for the sparrows and squirrels

I pass have none even
as they are all their own

discrete patterns of flesh
bone, fur, and feather on their

singular ways to survive
and seek the next moment

in designated dollops of every
creature’s common-spun time,

which just proceeds, but we parse
as we push nodes of nomenclature

onto those not needing the nod
for whom the billion heart beats

not quite repeated by another
are enough to number

the distinguished each
and separate named-not one.


Qualified Success

Flies of unknown nomenclature
cross my eyes’ own path
as I ascend the evening stairs
climbing through rock ledge
and woods from the borough’s
pleasant, frequented park,

throwing gauze across my vision
at each step up through the leaves,
though not biting or even buzzing
in my ears, so silent and safe—
just provoking a lazy wave
of a randomly chosen arm,

whose effect is only to disperse
the cloud for an instant until
assembling in animal instinct
and perfection again, so I rise
through the repeating nebulae
wondering at their source—

sudden surge of warmth or water course—
but unharmed and unimpeded,
so I can stand the minor haze and flux,
flex my quads and hams up to the summit,
must accept my entomologic ignorance,
having broken only a stroller’s sweat, consider I succeeded.

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