Fallen Things

Phillip Brown

Listen.

Something is asking
to be born.

•  •  •

Threshold
      installation
      handmade paper (abaca,
      sisal, hemp).

Like embers
blown into being,
each rumpled page glows,
suffused with light.

Each—like an autumn leaf,
like an uttered prayer,
like the glass sheath
from which
      the moth emerged—

each is aflame with
the spirit of fallen things:

the soul newly departed
from the husk of its form,
still present
      and luminous.

What is this hymn
      I hear, wordless,
      in my head?

What is this strange fire
      stirring within me?

Reverence
fills the soft bowl
of my heart,

and I wonder
if I should put off
my shoes

as I stand before
this silent hearth,
this paper sea burning.

•  •  •

Houses of Being: Morgue
      evolving installation
      burnt pencils, light.

Here, at the origin,
in this warm darkness
the stillness has crept
close around me,

pressing its quiet body
up against mine,
and I feel I might
dissipate and
become shadow,
      become spirit.

Who is this hesitant one
      who longs to lie down
      in the folds of night?

A dim light eases
out from two openings
in the wall—flickering
like two tiny lanterns—

and whispers across
the blackened wood,
down the length of the sills,
fading into obscurity.

There is a presence here,
      a pulse
in the smoke-scented air—
the inaudible hum of earth
after fire.

Bending near, I see
they still bear the fingerprint
of souls, these
burnt sticks, these

dark bones.