I opened and fell short.
There was a time,
a film about
an idea I hadn't
had. And I was too young,
not ripe
for a documentary.
"This kind of goes
beyond me," I said. "To me,
the idea seems sort of
conceited."
As such,
I predicted an enormous storm.
I would be a sharp knife, and overcome
shyness, putting dents in
doors and moving outside.
There were so
many things
to see, but I had
no proof of that.
Eleven years could go
by in three nights,
but who would
believe me?
I had partners, but I wanted
ingenious partners.
I still like to make a lot
of noise, but it begins
where I am a mother over
a great space to say
goodbye to all my children.
It's that sort of noise; I've got
that sort of a drive now.
Life provides glimpses into
archival footage
so we feel we've been
here before, but really we have not.
We utter, "um," and "ah," and shake
the world over.
A house at the edge of a cliff
I slept there
packed in the cold of night
the moon a ten cent coin
a stone of vistas
the sky and starlight were music
was the wind the enormous story
history is the sea is ancient history
although I've traveled
I was thinking I could touch
right there where there would be inevitable
conveying a thought thinking don't drop it
Seth Landman lives in Denver. He edits the magazine Invisible Ear and a website of video poetry readings called Divine Magnet. His chapbook, Parker's Band, is available from Laminated Cats Ltd., and he has poems appearing or forthcoming in Skein, Glitterpony, Model Homes, Coconut, notnostrums and the Boston Review.