J e n n i f e r V a l d i e s —

Being Partial Air

A hand guided me back to earth

I leaned into being as a medium

A past self recognized

A dark red sky

Where I was following an arrow

In the shadow of a weathervane

The low north wind

Kicking acorns into the lake

I leaned into the material

Of the unobservable world

What had to be projected

On the lightbox of the mind

The sound of water in a tunnel

Lapses of bad thought

Apostrophes of rain

On a postcard from Cologne

There’s my rose in the outer gardens

There’s my cloud sketched as a face

Dressed up like an angel

Cyan and ochre, a relief print

Of a falling star

Paper dipped in coffee

Red flags along the edge

Of the ravine, a barricade

Drawn around a heart

Where I was most a part

Of a primary form

Born late spring

Bright wave breaking

Close as your first note

Of memorized music

Clairaudience

I had admiration

for the lyric in a partial vision

for one in the official darkness

of the poem

in the other room

what woke me once

in a former life

I followed unnoticeably

the enfilade of names

and their translations

the dream of an elder tree

which led me to its copy

it occurred to me naturally

an interior weather

could match the real environment

how an image just passing

could appear later, casually

as someone waiting for you

at the top of the stairs

I felt one apart

from the mind

I had admiration

for that distance

which issued, inarguably

out from me

it was a game

knowing it was unspecial

to see the future

it was fun

for me, like my poems were

I Wanted the Air Between Music

Outer language in bas relief

The sustained note of breath

     where sound rejoins its body

I wanted more time in history

     in the archeological sense

For once to be the one that opens

     and not the one let in

I’m not interested in eminence

I never wanted to be a candidate

In what drew me into detail

     when I looked into its mirror

This is me starting over

     as a wasp works through the gap

This is me saying nothing

     to make some space for speech

Changing nothing, but being changed

Under the influence

     of almost everyone…

Is that you there

     at the dead end of love?

Opening the vaults into

     the memory of love

.