by Sam O’Hana

 

As a quavering leaf is struck down

slabs of iron in miniature, hewn to exactitude

do a double take.

 

For all their obscure origins, layers of dried ink,

these seriffed chessmen lace their jammy fingers

and support peremptory feet,

a portcullis or cabbage patch of glyphs and breaks.

 

The expanses of blanched fiber and pits among

the knitted mesh, these blocks learn the details,

and immediately forget. A roller, or sloping hand curates the

rendezvous between sheet and lipsticked hull.

 

This kiss, this branding is for life, as vivid

and public as when a young man guns his moped

through the streets of a mediterranean village.

It stays with you, because the clarity with which

its presence is sheared into the world.

 

Moulded metals boast of outliving the trees, the stone

of Roman steps. And the text, just a

record of the keen blood, pressing over

raked horizons, many impressions

left to be made.