Five Poems by Brandon Kreitler
COMPANY EDITIONS is an independent publisher of poetry and visual art. The journal, Company, was founded in 2013 and is published three or four times per year. We will also be publishing chapbooks beginning in late 2016. Company Editions is based in Athens, GA, Iowa City, IA, and Cambridge, MA. You can contact the editors by emailing firstname.lastname@example.org.
NOTES FOR SHELTER
the seasons of industrious weather left.
A PRIVATE RELIGION OF WIND
A loose chicken wanders in the yard of the deaf
The lawn gone dormant in the middle spans
in the land from which you recall
that you wanted something from this:
to leave the house like a knowledge and know
in the trill of leaves that shoal and deaden
yourself as a wake.
REPORT FROM THE TERRITORY
Three days I wandered in fen, in caked mud,
and came to a sunken house, what would’ve once
been called a waterhouse, its flat roof thatched
in wasted grass, and came through the thick door
into darkness and for a long time the dark didn’t leave.
I felt along the notched stone where what felt like vine grew
and came through the unadorned corridor to an opening
and in the indeterminate room found a squat bench
where I sat and lifted my feet from the mud.
Maybe a river passed under or near, if river applies.
There were wrappers on the bench and flies swarming the oblivious dark.
Then something seemed to hang in the air, fluttering by a wall,
and came slowly to fill the room, though the fluttering wasn’t new.
There must have been an opening, where an image carried down,
and there was a mirror above the bracken water though
the bracken water was a mirror; and carried onto the wall
the day’s image, clearer now, of sun moving on reeds in wind
and the coming and going of cloud cover no longer nothing;
and though the light was low the light did not end.
I saw what I thought I saw and would have been willing to say it,
had there been someone to speak to, had I not gone on alone
in the dank air, in this place where gleam threaded through me.
I was not enough, but was not over,
and though no longer early in the mulch of years
there was nothing to know but that I would go on
in the impossible houses of light and men.
THE WESTERNMOST SKIRMISH OF CIVILITY
You were surprised by pleasure
and then circled it like a religion,
established boundaries not passed
out of respect for the principle
of boundaries. This showed a commitment
to the early feeling, though dulled
endlessly what you might have loved
had it taken a form other than that
of letting you go.
LETTER FROM AN INSTITUTION
The far off music from an over-lit waiting room is enough
to make me think of something
but I’m not sure what.
When I make new words I define them
with the old ones. They are there:
squirrels in gridded foliage,
the daylight re-dividing the courtyard,
though it’s never finally divided.
There’s no specificity, only intention toward it.
The plot having been largely satisfied:
the idea of love and its exhaustion, but it’s yet
to end there.
It's a kind of trouble and a kind of consolation,
that it's not over, not even the meat
of some ginned-up story with a punch-line
so distant it would only arrive by chance.
When I’m lying here un-spooled, splayed
like children’s yarn, I can admit these problems
are real, real in the way
the portrait in crayon is real.
The nurse approaches like a waitress.
Brandon Kreitler's poems have appeared in Conjunctions, Boston Review, Spork, Indiana Review, Poor Claudia, Maggy, Cutbank, DIAGRAM, Omniverse, Vanitas, Stonecutter, West Branch, and Verse Daily, among other journals. A chapbook, Dusking, is available from Argos Books. He is the winner of a Discovery / Boston Review award and lives in New York City.