Kylan Rice – Two Poems

•   December 08 2015 // poetry   •

Two poems by Kylan Rice


Dust lessens the lens of the leaf—a little further
on: the Oregon-berry, burned out, blackened for being
by the way. That I have passed this way before makes
all less intented, less lets waxenness reflect for being
at the level of the foot. To get to any depth the best
I can do is arch my back back to glimpse the brighter
leaves, those less blurred by my back and forth by
the way beside this brook, bent closer to my reach
as long as I can keep it at the corner of my eye—
here, where lens further curves to fill in for itself
the distance. So long throwing back my back I’ve longed
for a tilt, less of this untoward bowing than a dropping
down to see what’s inlaid, what’s leaved. Past Oregon-
berry, scrub-oak, to get back to the valley where,
getting clear, for the first time, of the canopy, dawn
behind me brimmed then hammered the full oak leaves
into the first true gold I had ever seen, a gold not light
itself but light just as it falls, just as it first fills
the eye, the eye less a brim than a cup, less waxed,
more intent, intending. Back to where my breath brings
in, not out, as now, to stir this surface too into gleaming,
something then to tilt to the left of the eye, to get
a glimpse, not of what lies behind, but over
                                             and over, the sky.


Thought exercise

       All my weight on that one foot. Pressure would have formed
under me eventually. Even if imperfect if only every step was
       unconditional. If only I didn’t have to watch each breath form
in front of me then wait there. Not enough to break I start to
       slip. A bearing down whose end is this cold look at heaven.

Kylan Rice has poetry published or forthcoming in The Seattle Review, Gauss-PDF, Inter|rupture, [Out of Nothing], saltfront and elsewhere. He is an MFA candidate at Colorado State University, where he produces the Colorado Review podcast.