By Klug, Nate
the place I-95 meets The Pike,
a ponderous thunderhead flowered
stewed a minute, then flipped
like a flash card, tattered
edges crinkling in, linings so dark
with over the top bright
that, status, ready, on the overpass edge,
the onlooker couldn’t decide
till the tip, or maybe then,
what used to be printed and what were hidden.
utilizing quite a few types and reaching a number musical results, Nate Klug’s Anyone traces the unraveling of astonishment upon small scenesnatural and household, political and religiousacross America’s East and Midwest. The book’s identify foregrounds the anonymity it seeks via a number of capability: first, via shut remark (a concrete observed, a goshawk, a bicyclist); and, moment, through translation (satires from Horace and Catullus, and excerpts from Virgil’s Aeneid). Uniquely between modern poetry volumes, Anyone demonstrates fluency within the paradoxes of a non secular lifestyles: To stand someday / outdoor my religion . . . or continue ready / to be claimed in it.” Engaged with theology and the classics yet by no means abstruse, the entire whereas the poems stay grounded within the out of the ordinary, actual international of what it really is to suppose: / moods, part moods, / swarming, then darting loose.”
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Extra resources for Anyone
The less you try to notice them, the more they will know of you. 49 Mercy Its water-torture-slow wend in me. Its work like the reverse of work. No wonder human praise won’t stick. No wonder anger’s more often summoned, its hum, ready-made, that steadies my head like hospital television, throwing blue rumor for hours at no one. 50 Observer Not seeing me, not even looking, K. on her silver cruiser charms her way through the last long moment of the changing light: snow boots and a Seychelles Warbler’s old blue tights, a rolled-up yoga mat in her basket wobbling like a wild tiller as she pedals.
25 In Calico Rock, Arkansas Matthew 26:73 From No Jake Brake and No Barn Burn on to Peppersauce and Greasy Slim old East Calico now a ghost town so anyone’s language shall reveal him decrepit stones once City Jail tells iron sign the words still welded kept and lost in Calico Rock 26 Novitiate for Matt (Brother Isaac) Entire Thursdays in your room. Morning’s easy, now afternoon with its sense of sand leaking from your fist: holes in prayer everywhere you’d already filled them. Breathing out, you think not of the Psalms but lazy dogs as sunlight forks and darts across the floor—ambiguous flashes of oak roots under water or, lacunae intact, a scroll from Qumran, swallowed by a bunch of passing clouds.
He’s cleared the inner chambers, still has the gardens to cross, a second outer palace, more stairs, new set of gardens, an outer palace. It goes on like this for hundreds of years. If at last he should limp through the ultimate gate—never, it can never happen— he’d see outstretched before him the imperial capital, center of the world, rustling with red wine and shit and music. Here, nobody can make it, least of all a corpse’s courier. But you sit at your apartment window, whispering such a story into evening.