Sarah Battle

Sam Peeps watched the trial
of the triad of the fire-starters
with his usual and unearthly
concentration, concentrating
his whole life into
a momentary focus. Adjusting
a lens just carefully, turning it
this way and that, that the sun
might be sharpened to a diamond point
through that glass and burn them
into memory and burn a string
of sporadic apparitions into lines
of words approximating thought,
a burning string of continuities.
Even notwithstanding crickets
singing in the hay, they are setting off
the early fireworks, that snap
in the night like beetled hay
gathered in half-thought’s flickering
embers. What would he have learned
to say and think and write if he had lived
a thousand years, three thousand years,
three hundred thousand years?
And he would tell you, yes, but only
“under the rose.” Like love,
it is easy to say what it is not,
nearly impossible to say what it is.
Even notwithstanding we are here,
under the rose, telling time, studying
for the “test of time”, fire-starters all,
out among the acres of young green wheat
and its unreasonably beautiful summons,
amid which Sarah Battle rises
in her sudden apologia, standing tall
and staring straight ahead
in contrasting double-killing sables.
Geoffrey Nutter


Geoffrey Nutter

Floating Wolf Quarterly Cover_wolf