Two Poems
Chad Scheel

Just a glance


Stigma with lime peel --
two small wounds between thumb and index --

where the salt residue is history,

the blooms jinx and wither

within confines of pluck and pull.

If the reverence required is anything
like still-life, I'll revere.

consideration, blind as insistence,
cannot arrange the worry, the fear of infection --

free from rules of place-point.


Peel with lidded jar underfoot (whispers) --
scars of funereal toil --

the first position is repose:
before the pluck, before the pull:

all is well in seclusion,
with lines that point to patient fruit --

fists that fold away:
some light, some shade of it

some notion of effigy
that curls near the corner --

near conscience in color.


I remember the elm

the shadow it made;how bodies reeled
with implications
of the sorrow
myth makes.


by the song of your fault,I swear,

it's yours

Price. Paid for.Samaras
making their nevertheless downward path

to the concrete.

Whatever I prune grows back.
What spinning does,
what falls

is one spaceover another's

Why not let go? --
The room spins.