from A Paper Likeness

by HEIDI RESZIES

 

 


the 


current                                   a blue 

 

line [1]

 

 

 


a  


hollow                                     a 


chosen 

                              point [2]

 

 

[1] Silence falls in drifts. This sound is repeated until the garden reveals nothing: a deep canvas of snow growing more luminous by the hour. When I hold a blank page up to a window, note the illusory blue border. 
The thin line between moving & moving away. How dark the relative constancy of white paper flatland appears in this context. Whether read horizontally or vertically. Even tilted toward the light all brightness lies beyond it. I’ve forced light indoors in the form of twigs flowering lemon yellow on the kitchen table. Also in between mirrors, so the effect multiplies indefinitely like wallpaper.

 [2] I'm leaning toward this window: an opening that frames a pane. A thin skin of ice built up while we were sleeping. Now morning illuminates this intricate crystalline filter. A veil. Like the leaded glass window of a church we sometimes attend, just show up. While I’m attending this one aspect
of November, my exhalation clears a spot on the glazing: a window inside another window inside. How many metaphors fit? I zero in on the steel blue luster of that starling, then drift to the cluster of dried drupelets still clinging to the tip of a branch. What about the seeds inside them—how hard does the flesh cling?