Michael Smith
As Naturalists
Something, perhaps, might be made out
on this mystery of mysteries. The small skate
mimicked perfectly the color of the sand
brought in to save bright houses built
too close to the shore. We never saw it,
just the glittering cloud it left behind.
When on board, we were much struck
by the despotic sun, going down,
its abstract light thrown everywhere,
so we allowed ourselves to speculate
and draw up some short notes. In summer,
we prefer unpitted olives, though they have cost
us crowns. Was it desire that made us fall
from forest canopies? What else erupts with such
cosmic force from such cosmetic minds?
Who now only drinks when she is thirsty?
Impossible to answer. From that period
to the present, we have steadily pursued
the same object: to flesh out again
the pretty flowers picked and pressed
into our thick books. Our work is nearly
finished and our health is far from strong.
We hope we may be excused for these
personal details; hurt fingers will always
seek a mouth. Our seasons have grown
short, the horizon fat as a punched lip.
Summertime roiled our bellies and put buds
in our ears. Though it contains hardly
any original facts, by this work
we can say the body on water is enjoyable,
but we would rather fly. Nearly perfect,
this art of scorn and scowl—The walrus
hugged in this photograph by the family
of tourists is quite clearly erect.
As Naturalists
Something, perhaps, might be made out
on this mystery of mysteries. The small skate
mimicked perfectly the color of the sand
brought in to save bright houses built
too close to the shore. We never saw it,
just the glittering cloud it left behind.
When on board, we were much struck
by the despotic sun, going down,
its abstract light thrown everywhere,
so we allowed ourselves to speculate
and draw up some short notes. In summer,
we prefer unpitted olives, though they have cost
us crowns. Was it desire that made us fall
from forest canopies? What else erupts with such
cosmic force from such cosmetic minds?
Who now only drinks when she is thirsty?
Impossible to answer. From that period
to the present, we have steadily pursued
the same object: to flesh out again
the pretty flowers picked and pressed
into our thick books. Our work is nearly
finished and our health is far from strong.
We hope we may be excused for these
personal details; hurt fingers will always
seek a mouth. Our seasons have grown
short, the horizon fat as a punched lip.
Summertime roiled our bellies and put buds
in our ears. Though it contains hardly
any original facts, by this work
we can say the body on water is enjoyable,
but we would rather fly. Nearly perfect,
this art of scorn and scowl—The walrus
hugged in this photograph by the family
of tourists is quite clearly erect.
Mike Smith is a graduate of UNC-G, Hollins College, and the University of Notre Dame,
and now teaches at Delta State University. He’s published three collections of poetry,
including Byron in Baghdad and Multiverse, a collection of two anagrammatic cycles.
His translation of Goethe’s Faust was published by Shearsman Books last year.
and now teaches at Delta State University. He’s published three collections of poetry,
including Byron in Baghdad and Multiverse, a collection of two anagrammatic cycles.
His translation of Goethe’s Faust was published by Shearsman Books last year.
