Marcella Durand

from “A Winter Triangle”

if the theatre were open air

if the theatre were open to sky

stars become actors

constellations the script

galaxies special effects

the effects of distant explosions

because distance may be violence

the universe is explosion and violence,

and car chases

**

if the play, I mean, the universe

were a buddy movie action-adventure thriller

and the bodies of men infinitely reflected

six packs stand in the front and refracted

blonde, square jawed—refracted

hands on hips, weeping

shoulders, compacted

bowed under the weight

of their muscles

what number are they

in the mirrors bowing endlessly behind them

where is the one

with the arrow

to step forward

and maintain order?

is there no one?

is there many behind the one?

behind the point of the one?

 **

what sort of order

is a cheap acrylic

mirror lined with foil

photographed on the cell

photographed again

and after that

“after that”

frames sped 36,000 per second

unwatchable except

on the inside-eyelid screen 

“A Winter Triangle” (continued from left bottom)

cast alight – cast – gasp – ding

gasp gasp a scene startles – major foot lifts

helicopter rotor – pulls back hair – tie flies

just announced – of great importance – sets precedent

tie flies – buttons jacket – I am with – mouth agape

into sun – sun is gold – nothing else – only gold

fire not air – faces darkward – gold not fire

time is slow – earth circles slowly – time is slow

sun never rises – rotor circles slowly – in silence

**

look to the cold brilliance of the winter triangle

wander through night of vanishing perspectives

and over rocks that wash into mineral seas

under flat grey skies never to be in color

as vision is always heading to black

as what is looking at art and sky anyway

as Mars/War takes uncertainty

and travels directly into it

**

may film stills be a constellation of stars

all glossy lips and marcelled hair

furlike eyelashes throwing long shadows down cheeks?

their hair named after me

me named after the god of war

Bow takes on Arrow

Arrow shoots back

my first name is war

my last name is endurance

and strangely I am a poet

in the midst of inventing a new form of poetry

that in the infinity of space seems not quite to manifest