A Conversation with a Day of Answers (Tir Aux Pigeons, 2009)
by Laura Goldstein
“[W]hat’s filled in to be expected,” yet I find myself in the unexpected. The way the language here creates a lovely “missed step,” one that moves along the musicality of time, wraps itself up, then releases.
“[O]ne part of a sentence after another” is a paratactical delight. I roam these fissures and clefts with multiple places to travel. I am on a road trip, which happens to be part train ride, which happens to be part flight. That is, the journey is startling, bits of dream and consciousness. Bits of night, morning, day, which opens, as the sun does, with “a weight that’s nonexistent” or with a word rushing toward the future/the future’s past/the past’s present. It is simple, simmering, shimmering. These words are unexpected in the space between humidity and dryness, unaware of their own conditions, unaware that the sentence finds itself like “autumn too far from today,” which is to say, too near tomorrow, “as the day will have its answers that confound.”
“[T]he song is a faux pas” or the song is appropriate or is both. It is a confluence of point/counterpoint that yields and resists, that eventually looks for answers, in the hours, in the half-step that we call instance:
“not a confounding but a conspiring and all stock in the future but at the same time the present. the past never never ever, this is impatience though hoping to build upon and to not have to use a word that betrays
only they do. like apologies and nothing but phrased and offered is a hope that is a euphemism for future. only a word can betray and even words are beyond themselves in a day.”
How “tender the weather” in these moments, this occasion we call poem, where the day of answers brings questions and changes directions. A progression of candor. Is this a love story? Is this ars poetica? Is this an instrument, like the metronome whose tick hesitates just slightly to remind us of our humanness? We do not possess this day, these answers, or the questions that are left in sleepful-awakeness. But they haunt us, at the tip of the brain, like a vision—full of delusion and beauty.