Chris Bridgen
Carpenters Use Language Better
Carpenters use language better.
How they consider the least twice,
state once. Meaning snug against
joists. Rain, soil, time, trunk
created every shape -- there
remains only need of softer angles.
We remain unpainted shelves jutting out
from high thick walls of fresh jails. A
choice made in dark, on rickety tables.
Edges sharp, nowhere you dare feel.
Erasing excess space perfects a man
or swaddled baby. Michelangelo chose slow
marble. We cut outsized egos from cigarettes.
purple microdot, and raw dogs.
All this art we share: your dreams
pure theory in mute earth. My endless why
blueprint of well-hewed forever. Others
remain a soft brainy people, shelving
uncomfortable truths out back of no matter.
~
Do or do not
A man, deciding, builds a cabin where woods breathe easier. In this telling, man's
nature overcomes nature. Branches out, includes axes. Cedar and steel and no games.
Proudly offgasses two dozen trunks of carbon. Leaves roof to forest canopy. Returns
to earthly pleasures fuller clearer eyed, bent sharper heart to squared.
He fails mentioning most logs found
sawed by strange winds. Bootstraps
hauling jugs of fresh water. Gaps
in this story filled by wild moss
babied in moist rock bassinets.
Solid ground bearing his ego.
Is he a loner, I ask.
She strokes what stems of greying
hair remains and considers silence.
Every tree remains calm if nothing
useful stirs their shapely leaves.
Fresh sprung antennae green a wood,
reach for whatever skies renewing.
Outside a $380 double-glazed window,
nightfall chuckles away.
Chris Bridgen (he/him) lives in Ottawa Canada, a cold capital city that flirts relentlessly with boredom. Scotch helps, as does poetry and cats seeking a cold lap. He’s been published in Flo, Poetry Pause, Arc, Delicate Emissions, and others.
