Ingrid Wendt

To a German Painter Who Asked about Poetry’s Open Forms


You show me your rhythms I’ll show you
mine, the way certain intervals
beyond the measure
of time unfurl
and fluctuate:  no
tango no march but like your own
clear plastic “Time Stations” intersecting

tomorrow on paths no signpost has access to

no computer command to interface
daffodils trumpets angels and swordfish but here
they are anyway:  psalms of images each with its own refrain
the echo of rune on rune:  layer of paint on paint:  shapes of stellae, steeples  
tombstones reaching into the past and the past repeating:  mass
graves and our own and fractals of history shifting:  
patterns not in the motion itself but in
the measure between:  
flotsam and jetsam love's leftovers:   spaces in which the spirit sings

stage lights spot lights overlapping the way tomorrow is shining through
yesterday: white yellow orange gold amsel rooster robin kiebitz
and somewhere a cow you hear them all
in the same
moment and we know what
comes next:  this measure we follow a helix a spiral
crescendo cresting nothing to do with clocks with yardsticks with limits with stop.

                                                                                For Traude Linhardt