Glenn Bach
from: Atlas
From all the folklore
the earth does not belong to
this we know)
models to understand the world and ideas
supporting or containing
who built the ships the craft who owns
the homes being sold
our coast after sinking, land of shells
of sand
under foot the walls of our islands
to hold back the TIDES
(coursing: these desire lines
our wary domicile doing so
will lead
to disaster (no such thing
as natural)) waters flowing unimpeded
know without glancing at the sun
a shimmering disc. Decipher the throttle
of our hope. For the last decimal
the metal in the water. Through jostling
strangers who could find a place
in the noise. The clothes that smell
of smoke what safe haven
not recognized. Before it touched
a flock swoop low in the sky
of scaffolding nicked
for a small corner
of glorious life. Odd currents
blown by the wash
of noise with no people
to recognize. Arms sore
from the bruises
through purple dusk. Somewhere
out there at least ten birds
in the sky.
Frame an unusual shape in your thoughts, such bustle in town rarely captured.
The city proves bull-headed in distinctive fabric from manner to core,
the large parcels and the place of horse and buggy in no other community
of the motor age.
There is some evidence of gold, water and pasture, wood and timber,
in beds or on the beach.
As the brush rabbit sings from divine heights upon these many plains
and groves of trees, the seven giants in the earth open great rents
in the once-green sea of grass.
to where. The retreat
be left behind
the costs we face
to leave
no longer a wetland edge
as nigh the water
what might have been
brood about
the glamour fish of the east
coast eggs left to their
own. To latch onto piers as marshes
the best parts. Two-winter
sampling
at the beach
consider sea walls and sewers
of storm water
the path. The pier
upon the surge. In fact
a pirate's nest
minnow traps
ecotone: all edge free of shadow
water
bottom trawling
eddying
pathless reeds
no dust to shake
115,796 acres, 100%
how far the fire managed to burn
down into the valley until fuel got
too sparse how much better north
slopes did than south
east of the 39 of Windy Gap did
OK Throop Peak well thankful for
snow in June there! pretty bad
burning above Monrovia note the
spared forest north near Monrovia
Peak one of the wettest parts of the
San Gabriels & hopefully April’s
rain kept it wet enough for the
trees to survive time will tell
it all seems like a dream until you
see the hills scoured dozer roads
cut along the ridge lines white lies
of smoke in the morning air
Originally from Southern California, Glenn Bach now lives in the Doan Brook watershed of Cleveland, Ohio. Glenn retired from a career in sound art and experimental music to focus exclusively on Atlas, a long poem about place and our (mis)understanding of the world. Excerpts have appeared in such journals as DIAGRAM, jubilat, and Plumwood Mountain; sequence-length excerpts include cricket (eclipse) (Stone Corpse Press, 2024) and verdugos (Ghost City Press, 2024). Glenn documents his work at glennbach.com and @atlascorpus.bsky.social.