The Architect Speaks
by Evan Harrison
There must have been a scream
to join the voice of wrenching steel.
Underneath, black dresses brushed
tuxedos and there must
have been teeth, glass stems
sunk through fingers, talk
innocuous. An opening, a mingling.
The ceiling caved, the ceiling caved,
I have calculated endlessly,
the ceiling caved under the weight of glinting,
wet snow. I feel myself on the rooftop
making angels, and then drifting
to the wreckage to measure
the mass that has descended, to
consider the snow that has melted
on the warm skin of the dead.
How I misfigured before I began.
Night always crumbles now,
and I cannot forget that we suffer
for the elaborate, design beyond
the natural graces, as if the body
is not enough in its flesh
and bone—no, there is no we.
Alone, I have been framed poorly,
and could not make it work.
Wine is the architect of forgetting
and that brilliance of lamplight
before some final mistake.
