Word For/ Word: A Journal of new writing

Eryn Green

Here to spread light on

Joy is what I like,/ That, and love.
--Ted Berrigan

The lights turn the ceiling on

into goldleaf--all of them, makes me

a messenger--each

of these trees is amazing.
I see

branches arc lightning, Lionel Messi on tv

and am convinced he will always be perfect--that bravery is

a girl at the bar that could not look brighter. I ignore

only as much as I can handle--no such thing

as more perfect. We don't fall in love

just to cling--we open

all the windows. I had wanted to show you

before--a new lane of music

and walking off into the kitchen after. The sun

is fast laughter--long enough

to watch the windows change

into lingering street bells--meant

never to die
--map only and archive

Arcady, the future, etc--brighter than

our mistakes. Like Prospero said

no harm done. No drowning mark

upon my soul. Bicycles just

heavens I hadn't seen--a whole

new planet orbiting. Literally

under orchids

fragrant in the moonlight--that noise

small white petals in the street--one star


Door The Heart

Big guns again: no speakee
indeed. Moonmoth
and grasshopper still escape our page
while distraction, with its big black dog
the horizon begs--
Because we are upstarts
we are heaven. Because we pass with wings
in the hand. Moonstruck and grass-led
I dreamt all men dropped something
a little like their heart
everyday O their passing


       String lights      strewn across

                              the underside of a still glass white

            wedding tent--that this

     isn't easy for me doesn't mean it isn't easy--a seat from which
to enter the world--thin rows of desert
                                                   flowers not giving up
                                    red dirt stalks
                                                       all grown up
to light. They don't know how to go backwards, don't know
                                            why even try--


                      As much as you wish

           we could be
           a seat from which
           with all the bravery
           of Ely or Levi, or any
           other angels of my
           clear lillynight sky
           we can be--I know
           how much Hanna and the sea
           changed me. The truth is green
           things never really die--I
           calm down at the sight. I don't
           understand protest songs
           in the street but know sky blue wool
           with my grandmother is beautiful
           in Israel--I let go, open up to
           tantivy on rooftops, awake
           as my name might mean, bent
           down branch under tender
           everything, so relax--
           We go over the cliffs at last