Issue 7 – Winter 2004 – Stan Mir

Stan Mir


Though We May Always Be

In our thoughts we may always be autumnal, wish
to be more like Wren constructing 
a cathedral in a ruined city, leave
woodwork to birds. If the angles & arches
perfect, sky will never again consummate with ash.

Our days, counterfeit heavens. The only 
thing real about the angel on the ledge
is the ledge. We are on it like a leaf
orienting air. I see your blind eye, though
it is circular it is no panopticon.

The specter may be a foot soldier or
a sheet with holes, a camera obscura locking
small frames in our minds. Though we may
always be autumnal, why not crush down 
the ghosts that do not die? 



An Eclogue For Brutus’ Wedding

Like an invalid
waiting for a bed 
she dreams slow

the monks will make wine 
from snow the monks 
will murder in the field

She screams one color: 
Gold: into the night

then the choir does form 
in sharp rows



Stan Mir lives in Rhode Island. His poems and reviews have appeared in American Letters & Commentary, FenceMeanjinRain Taxi, and Word for/Word.