Two Poems

Ethan Saul Bull

What I Can Know And We Can Know

That I am at the end of a philosophy text brushing dust from Keats, that levitating had to be discovered next to a shovel, that I have come out before the sun into the yard with the tree barks and root systems, that I think I figured this out yesterday though I may be different today, that music requires counting and spaces even when I’m not listening,

That the birds do not sing at all now, that if I were not me I might know myself better, that if I named myself I would keep my own name, that it seems like everyone’s playing Simon Says, that Simon is my middle name and it means tulip in Japanese,

That I negate all things uncertain right now and there are wires running all over the city or that I get upset not knowing or that it’s fine or that it’s the best I can do or that it’s slightly better than he did with you and that there is something connecting all of us, that negative capability comes to four dollars and sixty five cents, that I only have two, that I would start a letter to you with a number just to be funny, that after a week I wouldn’t get it either, that the time is evaporating all around you,

Dearest frogs, look, be my 180 degree vision that I have, though you do not like the frog pond I built, that I’m safely here behind you on the roof turning my head, that I have lost the tail feathers you lent me, that I think that’s what they were, or that the wind chime I built explains it.

Flying The Hours In You And London

Beside the council flats and the junk market, from the windows out onto the roof, from here above the translucent linen shop, inside the suited alley and hidden from the bricked forest, I am not sleeping and not knowing I am asleep and in the valley between the buildings, I am not numbering, I am not naming what I am, having lived the low light of a low battery sound in an entire lifetime, from the clock beeping and the artificial clocks on the hill, from the man playing Leonard Cohen I am in the harmonica and vibrating, I am going out to buy nail clippers for my cuticles and putting the part moons in the busker hats and going nowhere, I am buying art from the gumball machine and I am chewing it in a coffee shop, where the trees appear every other day, where in a check pattern I fall into a health food store to buy tea, where I am in the tv with the organic food, where I am on the handlebars of a bicycle and I am shaking like the tires of cars, where I am mute in the horoscope page and sleeping and helping you put the sheets on the bed beside the window.