September 7 | alexandrine | Marcella Durand

September 7, 2012

Here, the ocean washes over edges,

waters them down before they dissolve into each

other. Just as they were standing, waiting for that

moment, paused–like time wasn’t there for a minute

but there was the count again or it had never

stopped. The wheel’s invention helped us to understand

that we are never standing still, but are always

on a horizon, which is an illusion, a

mirage projected on the sky, as solid as

clouds. Small buildings spill down hills and scatter into

driveways, not quite art or compositions of the

city, but little footholds against the fierceness

of geology and time as held within its

strata and suspended crystals. But also small

traces of where something felt and thought, grains of lives.

Each fossil is both a record and prophecy:

appeared once in reverse echo of what was to

be. So where were we? We were intricacy and

intricacy makes architecture predicted.

 

 

Marcella Durand is a Fellow of the Black Earth Institute, and the author of several books, including AREA (Belladonna) and Traffic & Weather (Futurepoem). She has just completed a new collection, titled The
Prospect, and is now commencing work on a book-length alexandrine, of which this poem is an excerpt.

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