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Entrance CATHERINE KASPER Because I have opened the door, I must obsess on hinge, on handle, hewn surface door jamb and window, brass hardware Because the plane of glass demands pure confessional, and you believe in seeing into— not through, history a point in time not a blurry surface begging for moisture and crumpled newspaper, haunted by peering Since I've crossed the threshold between telling and creating, between make-believe and truth: an ingress artificially concocted for your viewing pleasure, you believe in the clairvoyant woman who wills her daughter's visit the door nailed to its mooring in the X-ray which has proven ambiguous to read— We both long for a clear break that could be mended not this suggestion of slivers, not a hairline fracture that cannot be captured on film Because a film of dust has clouded the windshield since I've last sat behind the wheel Because a wheel is composed of splinters the existence of things needing mending and a point in which history crumbles like bone I drive up the curb and into the door frame which bends like putty or rubber before it collapses whether there is someone waiting at the threshold— a moment which points to the X-ray, perhaps, or a question Photo by Amy England Tropism CATHERINE KASPER Where shoulders brush their strangeness onto each other Doing something that is more than thinking without the telling, only the seeing I live in a tropical climate; this is my real life Where air is chalk there is not a moment's peace a parrot on the neighbor's porch chatters In the afternoon, sun bursts like a bitter persimmon I dream of a gray city where skyscrapers shadow daylight Close-up the papaya leaves are cut-outs of hands You are inking a stone tablet, you are engraving alphabets I imagine you are throwing pebbles on the fabric laid over concrete Is it possible after so much time to dream the same dreams? Brown oil drips from the cracks in the ceiling Why do I feel guilty about this? In the city, I would hurry to the subway I am at the window thinking about something I should be doing seeing about this telling Where they are covered with ants the banana leaves wilt, crumble into the soil They see ash from the chimney and call it: confetti saints If, after so much time, rush hour is the state of these nightmares Would rhyme make telling easier to remember? here is no correspondence which can accurately capture the seeing they tell me to see; ash turns to spots on my arms This time last year I was planting the aloe, thinking of salve Photo by Amy England The World's First Photograph made by Joseph Nicéphore Niépce in 1826-27 CATHERINE KASPER a blur, really, and angles on the left, perhaps a building a tower with two windows and tall walls a gray building on the right then an abandoned building, crumbling cloudy or misty because time was moving you hold this in your hands a dull idea of what the world might look like a triangular ledge or platform whose pier does not fade into perspective but reaches out a body of water beyond, always fuliginous from which grows an island or a promontory you have this lens and a fuzzy idea which might be realized, recognized, a two dimensional object which someone might carry to bed and by candlelight, stare at its borders and recesses a painted copy or an evil alchemy? who would allow the world in your hand knowing what you must know about all that is blurry? in the center, a hazy darkness a depth which can only be speculated this is what you saw and it isn't Photo by Amy England The Adaptive Geometry of Trees Poems in encaustic paintings CATHERINE KASPER 1 Photosynthetic Response of the Strategies The story of trees is pressed into their flesh and in their gnarled roots— breath the amount of foliage overhead may be correlated with the amount of root tissue below the ground under the canopy of leaves cells swim into photosynthesis— do we reach as high for happiness struggle for light?   Photo by Amy England   2 Analysis of a Forest Succession In the carboniferous age occurred:             the formation of major coal beds ferns and seeds sigillaria, lepidodendron,                                                      ancient conifers              liverworts and mosses giant insects              amphibia spread three hundred million years ago—              or so scientists believe do the conifers dream              of some earlier life— imprinted in cell memory              slow torture of their growth                    into gradual extinction? In the future, the fossils              will be the hardened records                         of our half-life sadly displayed in a small cabinet              with the skeleton of a chimpanzee the creviced skull              of the neanderthal   Photo by Amy England   3 Theoretical Strategies of Leaf Distribution Coal is made from the carbon of ancient trees which do not decay to powder because they were preserved in boggy ground away from oxygen "such huge objects do not fossilize whole" to understand is to imprint the world with images that bring about our ends Zum Erstammen bin ich da a quote from Goethe— I am here to wonder   4 Speculations on the Shapes of Tree Crowns give up roots grow beyond expectation in air and light retract, retreat into density these twisting sinews of sky if we are essentially movement—frozen deprived of nourishment petrified grace   Photo by Amy England   5 On the Relation Between Theory & Reality The upturned tree has shallow roots that bifurcate regularly [see index] held up like a great hand blocking the way or rotting logs crusted with the green of liverworts slick with damp moss warm smell of decay expectant stillness that comes only from fecundity I turn the page, someone has left their overdue notice $4.05 and on the other side a child imitates it in penciled foliage Catherine Kasper's poetry and fiction has appeared in Conjunctions, Quarter After Eight, VOLT, and other journals. She is an Assistant Professor at the University of Texas at San Antonio Amy England's collages and photography have appeared in the journals Women's Studies and Denver Quarterly, and showings of collaborative work (with artist Karen Andrews) at Denver's Edge Gallery and the Denver Art Museum. Her book of poems, The Flute Ship Castricum, published by Tupelo Press, is scheduled for release in April. TLR Web home page