The Bead of the Weld


The marbles curve into the mouth of Gabriel’s horn. The race accelerates toward limit and it
Keeps on going, it doesn’t stop there, at limit, but eventually it may find itself
In a blink, past it, a slit in the finite fit for configuring one’s presence. I’ve slipped
On many surfaces that I was told were stable first. First, I was upset. But then I gathered
From the fluency of states
A feeling from the earth, draped it like a monk would, and kept
Its wrinkles taut about me. I put a palm upon the earth, a deep sore spot.
There’s a tedium for dousing joy—that it will crest, will have once been taut; it keeps a coiled
Stillness that one knows may crack open whenever, an egg perched
Tip-up on a twig, testing it,
Which it had wobbled onto some time hence. Inside, the marbles trace
The wet side of the shell
Like dirtbikes weave and sputter inside an iron sphere.
The question of enclosure never seems to be seen from the outside, or rather never asked
If looking at what one intends to seal. The task just gets set to.
Slip a hand into a gap
Between two peaks cartoonishly white at the tips
And, from many miles off, your hand may yet feel a chill
That you can apply to surfaces nearby. 
That is, if you wish to.
The pat of butter on its ratty wrapper may have got too much sun in it, for instance.
Looking over your shoulder at the geese infesting the good viewing hill, you may want to use
It there, to stop their too-hot hearts at will, but you resolved
Early this year to shrug off pettiness. It tends to complicate one’s habit. 
A third option, it becomes apparent, is
To let your hands stay cool, to sit with it.
And that’s what you do, are doing at this
Moment. And for how much longer
Will the welds hold under the torque been put upon them, that they were put there because?
The looking glass fails to disclose this. The imp for peering is becoming red and so permeable,
A liability. The mingled power of four hungry motors
Lifts the dusts from where it’s settled and this doesn’t
Help. A corner of the picnic blanket roils from the wind and though it doesn’t
Lift the sound it makes contains the fullness of the wind,
Like the balbis that condenses the erratic gusts into a steady hum transmitted by the pressure
On the I-beam it resembles. The foundation’s soundness
Becomes a question that no one will lift their mask to raise. 
They just keep to the task
Of keeping the imp sealed within, and the imp keeps at his.
The egg has been growing
Unsteady on its twig and goes unseen
Except by the geese who continue to live, oblivious to the wishes
Of their companion picnicking nearby,
Napping now, your head liking the cold hands it’s propped on, lacking pillow or a basket even, 
The breeze condemning the evenness with which you breathe, but not able to place a dent in it
Or much less its own wilting course. You know
Wind lacks choice. Everything is but a set of paths
Laid over time,
Which is a place. I’ll meet you there when that tune, impossible, and with an inversion’s notes
None could dare anticipate,
Leaks from Torricelli’s trumpet. I don’t want to go just yet
But I gather
Like the wind I flap
This choiceless flag.
Logan Fry is the author of Harpo Before the Opus (Omnidawn, 2019), and of recent poetry in Lana Turner, Fence, Prelude, Shitwonder, and The New York Review of Books