A small or large machine which you literally build
constructing even the source
of your materials like a birdfeeder a house a monument likewise treat as an otherworldly animal
from scraps and garbage, the purpose–take your mind,
as if chronicling
memory… what season what snow or dirt piles… woodpile, instruction manual,
hedgerows–choose an ordinary object–a door,
follow with a series, selected,
an eye toward insight: locks darkness floods or night. Realize there is no
reason, no fixed form. A list coheres as democracy,
the crucial play, opening your mind
in terms of opposites– your name on a blackboard fading slate hands strong on glass disappear, bridge, relink muscle.
Invisible hinge, set burning, salvaged by the muse,
where stops flow until jazz
is recharged– all two-by-fours behind scenes secret coherence carpenter nowhere visible, plank,
nail, slowness. Tone strong on its own, often
love it, do it again, discover ten and twenty snows
echo a single cadence, oddly good.
Pamela Hobart Carter loves Seattle as much for its water and mountains as for its bustle and creativity. She explores the Emerald City daily while walking her dog. Carter used to be a teacher who wrote on the side. Now she is a writer who teaches on the side.