A Note on Form

Never having lived
among things, but beside
forms of things, I no longer
look where the city lifts a little
further, past houses, oceans,
light from a crane, breathing,
no longer looking the child
hurried beside a mother moving
too, too fast at what escapes
the grasp of leaves & awnings
of leaves, past what is lifted
up, whatever word lifted from
whatever throat it’s lodged—
there being only one throat
between us—past perception,
(anything but arrangement)
& nevertheless perceiving,
as we must, what moves between
us, quickening, no longer a roof,
but atmosphere, precursor
& remnant of speech, remaining,
as it must, perhaps, the least
effective of our music

by Jos Charles

A Poem

It is not normal, a woman says

Never has been, another said

Ordinary, the men women make

In parks, corners of street, rhyme Daily,

I shut the window I pass messages by

The so-called tender seed of birch blows quietly by

It will be crushed in the office of living

and still may take root So crush

what is given The tender too carry guns

Do not forgive the too forgiven

by Jos Charles