Two Poems
The New Atlantis
On dry land—everyone was dead—
Cattle grazed—in the shadow of the
ferris wheel as—the landscape blew
away—Billboards advertised—the seve-
ral regrets—of citizens who
fell—and fall—like acrobats into
the sea—A city took to the
water—A city was carved of wood—
crowded with electric lights—paint-
ed on a bridge beam—A city was
painted on the wet ground—More like
a storehouse of graffiti—More of
an agreement than a place—The
city was marked—in the atlas as
lost—The map of the place—flickered—
like a cracked—signal—“So—long”—The ci-
ty dropped past the horizon—A
million blinking windows—of rooms and
rooms and rooms—I’m lost in this fuck-
ing building—The stairs go up—and halls
turn around them—The lights go out
losing—one color at a time—be-
ginning with a watery blue—
The building is asleep—When the ci-
ty returns from the sea—the har-
bor will be dark—At the mast—the ci-
ty’s sailors sing—I have love in
my heart—in my heart for the sea—for
the sea is deep and shallow—We
make our way by match light—conveyed—on
light bones and feathers—wings fanned out
where there might have been fingers—There is
a beautiful view of the lake
from here—And of junked cars behind—fenc-
es rigged of pallet boards—The wet
arithmetic—of city streets—A
quick mark—at the edge of the woods—
Though there are no woods left—lie down in
them—alone—Though you are never
alone—More rain yesterday than to-
day—A city spanned by bridges—
yellow honey instead of steel—no
people to cross—noisily—back
and forth—in their skin—no cars no drinks
at noon or at night—We depend
on this—Without it—our love sinks—And
the wind rises—Power lines down—
leaves—bits of leaves—hurled at the door—The
postal service blue mailboxes
wrapped—in black—plastic—to lend them dig-
nity—The city in the storm—
asleep in a drum—dreaming drum beats—
A city written among—a
hawk’s lovely breast feathers—A city
written in the pale atmosphere—
glancing through the telescope—and point-
ing out the wrong stars—What boats will
the city sail?—And who will kiss us
as we disappear?—collapsing
into the flowing city—I wear
a raincoat—gloves—the skin of an
optimist—I wear a necklace of
colored glass—Trees wave—a meta-
phor of waving trees—The gardener
has a mind for facts—Birds all o-
ver the window ledge—To trace—also
in the wet sand—with a pointed
stick—the shape of the city—A sale
at the grocery—on sweet yellow
onions—The names that recognize the
names we recognize—Everyone
comes here to get out of the rain—Ma-
ny more—live in shacks made of ply-
wood—burn garbage of the world—for heat—
The crowd—whispering under the
shining water—with watery eyes—
to watch over them—to silence
them—All night long—they shut their doors—The
city contains houses—contains
wheels—The city contains—the letters
of its name—and nothing else—They
sailed the wrong kind of ship—The kind that
sinks—Men—patches of brown cloth—cross-
ing the river—with the limbs of the
dismantled theater—in the dead
of winter—they built an earth—A still
life with people walking through—On-
ions—half-peeled oranges—bowl of loose
flowers and everyone you know
Calypso
What we have in common—are the
elaborate mechanical songs—of
metal birds—
Wind
tells the truth
to everyone
until
we’re bored to death
We walk to work
in the uniforms
of our trades
We drive our cars—in the privacy
of a city where
nothing happens
Foil—feathers melt—in a corner
of the room—My fingertips—dry—from
reading—I do god’s work as pun-
isher—for the sake—of return—from
the margin—to the margin—The
forest talking—to the puritans
about their houses—in the win-
dows of—cheap electronics stores—
What is lost in the mail
had a hole in it
a landscape un-
punctuated and bright
three stars in a box
The alphabet
is a game of skill
A city—lit electrically—
at the bottom
of the sea
I think
what an odd place to put a body—
What an odd place to put a sea—
to drown—without even a passport—
All of the people here—walk in
their sleep—They vanish—along a wire
suspended between two mountains—
fleeing the
scene
We’ll have to arrive—in envelopes—
postage—even—plastered to our
eyes—It saves us—the inconvenience
of growing old—Turned over—one
at a time
your
fortune is
a pair
of fives—The whistle—of birds through
the waves
To locate the city
follow the birds
To find the city
on the map
close your eyes
The difficulty is
memory fails
one minute
you’re sharpening pencils
and the next
your apartment
is the bottom of the sea
and there’s no paper
there
to write on
Waves drift over
the letters
written in the line
of your flight
and beneath it all
we touch
with tails and fins
What we have in common—is the
desire to touch—and to float—longing-
ly in our hair—
in a dialogue
of fresh
and salt water
moved by the sun
into the deeper current
followed by our clothes
We have—in common—an elaborate
system of theft—and roads leading
toward and away—
The story is tireless
“When we came to that island
the people there believed
we were gods”
Michael Ford recently moved from New Orleans to Athens, Georgia to pursue a doctoral degree in English at the University of Georgia. He is the author of Olympia Street (Trembling Pillow, 2008) and Carbon (Ugly Duckling, 2006). "The New Atlantis" and "Calypso" are parts of a series of 89-line poems that appear in a small book entitled Where We Expect to See You Soon, published by Ugly Duckling Presse.
