Magnetic
Mark Vogel
 

It makes her sad to meet characters

not permitted to think for themselves.

            Carl Dennis, “At The Corner”


All promise a glossy cover
for two days when the book arrives
then shelf decoration for weeks,
a resting object in a crowd,
the unknown story glued tight,
so thin waiting for spirit,
the momentum of need.

Maybe by half stumbling chance,
a great aunt points a gnarled finger,
or an old rain blows dancing fresh
from Washington State, and
untouchable itch pulls a first cold page
alive, tentative then hopeful,
whispering towns grown layered,

with smells, when shadows come
into focus, and beyond quick
the movie marries big muddy loving bend
and inlet, an eroded murmuring
history wet and yellowed,
with darting worm trail eyes
tormenting linear progression,

collecting like a living sponge,
outside the crowd, the bigger.
Amazing, says an explorer, when again
rich air is electric, and from
an unmapped fog-lifting distance
geese honk and clouds catch
cleaned light growing luminous,

the wind renewed again
carries faint peppery smells
from afar.