The evening, the singing: last in order of drive

The tick. The ink of it, and the bold stars
the planes’ tailings left just there
in the sky, and so many waiting and wanting
for the same thing, that last interest (last
in order of time), asking to be made up, recognized
crushed, amalgamated, and refined, as metals
as (specifically) silver, which is second best, which
is the alternate. I give these two versions:

1. Silver. 2. Silverado.

And then the mountains and then the plains
and the gesture full of lambs and beasts
and bears—One gets eaten, one remains (1. Gets eaten
2. Remains). Catch its hind, its rump, then
what? The query. The tragic prediction (a moment
a moment, a tirade.) The perfect illusion: clouds
parted, sleeping in the breath, the fog. Making
perfect waves and perfect sounds, perfect
passings—pauses without division
or touching down.

He could not find the mine. We could not find
the house, we could not settle. (Reaching to horizons
for 1. Success. 2. Recognition. 1. Silence, and 2. Keeping
calm). So: there with it—the collapsed motives, norming
the deeper symptoms, yes please. And I’ll share.


Genevieve Kaplan is the author of settings for these scenes (Convulsive Editions) and In the ice house (Red Hen Press). Her poems have appeared in a variety of print and online journals, including Manor House Quarterly, Map Literary, and word for/word. She lives in southern California.