Groundswell Idyll

Peter Szilagyi

 

I was reading Frank Stanford and dreaming

about dreaming. For me, there was, finally, not much

to lose beyond what there was to lose: continuum; thought

itself; grey-green sky giving way to a greyer, greener sky;

 

Georgia as a place you’d been

taken once when too young to remember; Georgics, as a form

for violence to inhabit. For about a year, I lived in a sixth-

floor apartment. For half a year, I did not buy curtains.

 

The view out my window, the idea of loss. So many rooftop

patios, the idea of loss. The physical elevation above

the sound from the street, the loss of an idea. A formal, essayic

senselessness. Noise without content, content as habit, things as merely themselves. For about a

year, for less, for precisely ten and a half

months. Time, as a place you’d been taken to.

 

For me, there was, finally, the shape

of my tongue in my mouth, on the roof of my mouth, fricative, sibilant, and so forth. Shape after

long silence. Silence as shape. Air. Space. Fullness. Groundswell. You’d asked for a clarification.

You were reading Lucille Clifton

and dreaming about loss. You were,

simultaneously, arguing for the primacy of text

in the formation of the self. Text as toothpaste

tubes. Text on Tootsie Roll® wrappers. Text on the

recycling bin. You were reading the Georgics

 

and feeling disgusted. We were living in a one story house

in a town of eight hundred. Golden eagles

landed in the fields after calves dropped

and ate the afterbirth. I had asked for an explanation. A grey-green sky giving way to white,

   then grey, sans green. Georgia, as a place far away. The Georgia

   of sixth floor apartments. The Georgia of towns of eight hundred.

   Continuity. Recursion. A loop, when drawn,

 

feels some iota of pleasure when it crosses itself, it must, a loop for its own sake. The primacy

 

 

of closure. Loss just because. Clarification

as indifference. Solid ground giving way as in a dream, but it’s not a dream, it’s not. Toothpaste.

Stoplight. Ball of twine.

 
 

 

 


 

 

PETER SZILAGYI is a winemaker and poet based in Washington, DC. Their work has recently appeared in The Adroit Journal ; Lana Turner ; The Florida Review ; and more.

 

The art that appears alongside this piece is “narcissus” by GRETA KOSHENINA.