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Robert Feather

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Construction Site

The slow movement of morning light:
   lead-gold then lead and gold,
that blackens the half-erected framework,
   pale lemon flowing through
on the back of the air.

And the city going on below,
   the work going on -
pavements, particular configurations,
   crowds and cars, trucks
sweeping round roads, active metal,
   weight hurtling to a stop,
and a hiss of compressed air ascending.

Cast this illusion then fall for it,
   swimming in the mid-air
of the builders, inching on girders,
   setting your eyes
along the straight line of steel,
   flinging the overwhelming air
behind out of mind,
   adjusting the visual
notch by notch, then step away.

You can’t - there’s measuring,
   and you’re in it,
there’s peering through visors,
   it is you
framing the visual to stop it,
   to see it flowing,
there’s piecing and connecting with you
   tapping away there
in the light’s increment
   where the living thing
you go to touch will not stay still,
   the framework fits too well
to be the one where the next girder
   is suspended,
where you continue
   and the ordinary air continues.

 

Page(s) 42-43

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