percuss the moment struck
the note begins to die—
taut head quicker
so the bluer tries approaches
tracks as stacked air—the drop,
the shear—holding past the stressed
node, dispelling from stone
the first fissures of a theme,
holding past the edge.
depress the gravity
of fingers let light fall—
locked hands scaling
the walls, their raising, block by block,
thick, old, porous; the piece assumes form
in its opening—now a weep hole,
now a secret cavity in the mortar—
a song, a sob to loose crowns,
to break ground in slack time.
impress a passage jade
soft bonds in cool decay—
arched hand scoring
tender, urgent, the bluer in green
makes from within without
a found root, the Lydian gate—
quarter taken for the final pass,
dark notes radiant down the arms,
dark frames eastward, late of day.
a gate a gate a pair
of gates—the moment breached—
clear heads passing
RYAN HARPER is an Assistant Professor of the Practice at Fairfield University-Bellarmine in Bridgeport, Connecticut. He is the author of My Beloved Had a Vineyard, winner of the 2017 Prize Americana in poetry (Poetry Press of Press Americana, 2018). Some of his recent poems and essays have appeared in Portland Review, Third Wednesday, Thirteen Bridges, Paperbark, and elsewhere. Ryan is the creative arts editor of American Religion Journal.
