geometries of indifference

By Lary Kleeman
December 5th, 2015

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skipping rock: so goes the first attempt without

buttons, even tinsel lands quieter than white

palm sugar as orientation begins, homemade,

wild as in wild bramble demarcating lochlan’s

meadow glistening with morning, the two turtle-

doves carry conversation westerly not

unlike the warmth rising, rose, having risen

tavistock green & summer sun drop, an authentic

cosmos if one has got glasses on & quiet

shoes to match the sugared melon layering

crisp rice cake upon crisp rice cake so that

when opened, when tasted, a forceful cavalcade

windows upon the tongue, rounds-out, empty

of color but bearing a second guess, buzz-worthy


misinterpreted, an ancient scroll went missing

in some lost canyon & left to itself for

centuries while rumors turned to folklore—

never so much as a yellow star or dancing

leaf cross-referenced since story had lost

all but its folly & folly, a small green stalk,

fit smartly between the teeth as one

mulled what to do behind winter’s iron gates

in paris when none but the carmelites continued

to press meaning into wafers with less appeal

than that of toasted oatmeal, a strangely smooth

oyster shell shellac stood for your body

your majesty—if midwinter sky were the all of

existence, then this would suffice for most


this morning with a blue flame burning:

a secretive fortune teller or so the hushed

petals of hardy meadow cranesbill lay frosted

as if caught in some display of finnish table

linen—that is, until april’s wind-over-the-plains

furthered the loss of heat at the end of stance—

pre-dawn windows in houses glow—such winding

yesteryears—apple orchards to city smokestacks

& inside each, wreckage squared or some other

geometry of indifference fossilized,

fossilizing so that one hasn’t a clue

as to where the four-sided barn swallow

blesses itself in star-ascent without

the least bit of catch in its flight


listen to the house wren’s tremolo, it bubbles & turns

notes in the cool barely lilac morning

as dew hangs or rolls, recycled glass glints

from such a roadside vantage (which cabin in the

woods is yours—the tree bark square or the

old driftwood teardrop) then to sip mulberry wine

beneath the prussian plum, then to close eyes

to mid-morning’s warming of sage & pine,

then to imagine what coastal storms can do,

softening continents so much so that lighthouses

must retreat with the help of hydraulics & workmen

who lift & reposition the beacons so as to outshine

the abrasion of metallic water, re-configuring

that which is looked for, looked upon, direction


sixty-five blue jays locked in a box—bon voyage

ionic sky—sky watch no longer as

approaching dusk is but a deckled edge

imagined from within the humpety-hump

of river mud & cordite, the rail line

a fine stripe in the silver tradition—

this trout a brook trout that frolics

in a buggy june vision, pollen grains

crowning each luminary lapping, river’s edge

adobe straw or stable hay, make of it

what you will before tracking back to your

stone hearth with copper pot, each

stained glass moment caught currant-wise

in silent trade come currant jam & toast


one moment, please, with regards to the peeling

topmost distance as windrush ungathers birds,

clouds, any & all nomadic beings of sky—listen

long enough & the dry shush of someone walking

like flint smoke or some hollow surface exposed

blends into belonging—not planetarium nor

cathedral, this space of this moment, a green

plaza nonetheless—observe the stratosphere

& duck’s egg, milk pail, even a broken taper

unlit & discarded by the garden wall gathers

momentum, momentous as salt glaze left by

the reclusive seven seas (yes, you’ve found what

is heirloom be it in the steadfast pale lichen

or in the lilting laughter you’d almost forgotten)


doubt not, the time for storytelling has passed—

its sanctuary offered only between the first

snow & first thunderstorm—where to go

to find a soft glow of surety now that

knee-high grass mimics the water-like air

& anglers emerge, illusionists all, bankside,

streamside, burnt sun invites the dragonfly

zip-lining amid a drop of blue & verdant

forest, slipstream killer, now here, now there,

evasive as white on white, newsworthy if not

for its nonconceptual eyes, then for the sum

value of its zero-in, black evergreen, drone-

time discernment, each mistake another dry

set to catch what where went without question


maybe that which was feared fallen & done has

yet to be gathered—robinsong builds treasure

note by note, a sheltering winter pine would do

no less for what is antebellum but fenceless

beauty, an alpine watershed winsome in the

before-time, the prerogative to wander & wait

remains, relaxed, even, gilded like haystacks

upon sun’s first rising, a home-like hereness

apportioning-out the good from the less-than-

likely amidst larkspur & soon-to-be-dried fields

of summer rye—there’s an easing into the issue

of horizon so that what comes is more like

a nectar of familiarity, something gathered for

having made the trip to see what outlives the rising

tidewaters & flaming forests of the here & now


copper pipe, granite dust, mined coal—one

how are you & how sweet it is, like fresh

cut flowers or branches green, the burlap

of inter-coastal gray afternoons pulled

back so that the view clears of istanbul,

its neotenous street markets where frugal

is from the heart, where wax sculptures indulge

collectible positions given sun & scarcity

of terrace shadows as jihadists stop for

tea beneath branches green, far removed

from the plateau of defending the faith—

faith—an impossibly hungry blue crab

lost amongst impossibly white slats of

desert sun, cloudless desert sun, metallic


not having followed a documented blueprint

but, instead, the documentation of flax flowers

as they trouble the sky with a pure victory

blue down here beside the grasshopper’s home

& scattered grassroots, quiet as a pinch

of salt, dusk a day away, it’s a lost

opportunity if not taken in such a place,

opportunity, if kept long enough to raise

a cream, might engender a time for

white—cloud formation, pick-me-up, a moment

of opening amidst events—a purposeful choice

which is part of something bigger, having found

that something bigger, say, morning, then ready

yourself for the hark-away of raw seafaring



3. The line “this morning with a blue flame burning” is taken from John Wieners’ poem, A Poem for Trapped Things.

5. Due to the proximity of the Russian army, on February 2, 1945, my father, along with other prisoners of war held in Stalag Luft IV in northeastern Poland, was locked into a boxcar and shipped to Nurnberg, Germany, Stalag XIII D prison camp.

7. In traditional Arapaho culture, stories were only to be told between the first snowstorm and first thunderstorm.