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


orchard

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
sang

Sedes

       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