ANDREW ALLPORT
Sarcophagus
i.m. J.B., M.D., J.C., M.R.
1
Say I was there. I was there.
Only, a little after. Only, near.
Say I saw it. I did see. But not then, now.
Say I couldn’t believe.
Say I couldn’t believe
my eyes—they were a little late, say.
2
What began with a rock
falling, a flutter of a fist-sized piece
striking through the higher air, parting infinity:
as big as a breadbox
or a bookshelf, about the size of this desk
and of equal velocity to a feather:
3
: a wave, a wall, water vapor :
the outside rolls in : blankets as they say
the scene or face : one coast slides under another
Somewhere the object continues
in spirit as they say
falling. Begin with this premise :
4
Ascending, and already that word seems
significant: pennies hammered edge-wise
in the grains of a downed fir
across the climbers trail—
what are they like, what do they stand for?
I do as I have done, always: touch them
for good luck, their shining edge.
5
Weekend chainsaws bray in the valley below
the white apron of stone called Suicide.
I climb into view of whatever Recorder
records these clear, conflicting desires:
Toby is climbing with a noose today
as a faith experiment. Legs elvising in fear,
inclined a degree beyond friction.
An Above exists, he tells me, moving up
delicately,
unbreakable as an eggshell.
6
What is solo a single stone, a sol
economy of self a light life (as in lifting)
A lone, as in reason I went to the woods
deliberately to live or to not. Of fears
what need one reason not the need
subtract from oneself one
7
He stood on the boulder rising from the sea
imagining the word whitecap as a mountain in spring.
Is man less capable than a forest of kelp?
If all elements conspire to our delight,
why should water drown its lord?
He stood in the mountain’s mouth, thinking
how alike an avalanche to thunder.
8
The route index attests to divinity: Middle Cathedral, Angel’s Wing.
The route index inclines toward evil: Devil’s Tower, Devil’s Thumb.
Our church is the church of the rock, he would say on Sundays.
It was true: a boulder had rolled through the apse, while the skyline
could be read diachronically as a hymn:
Awake, my soul and with the sun / my precious time misspent / redeem
The collective puzzle in parts, now joining (as in song)
9
It’s a bathtub exclaimed the boy made out of rock
at the grave of the child emperor you sit down
it fills up they shut it and you swim
