Incompletion
A poem by John Barr
As a treeman descending a fir, with chainsaw
uncreating it by lengths,
composes the hole in space which he climbs down,
so I am the treeman and you
the needle-perfect absence of the fir.
Arty and not true. In my bunk,
in metaphysical conceit I reach
your latitude. I anchor off yr coves,
I land, I take yr breasts’ unleavened loaves
in my two hands. I eat my solitude.
Satisfying, still not true.
You are blue letters doused with Shalimar.
You are the welcoming warmth I write into.
You are the suede, Wisconsin jacket I put on
in spite of regulations. As far from you
as it is possible on earth to be,
I see you in your sweater that’s soft brown,
teaching piano in Madison.
You are, in this blossoming
of incompletion, where I fail to be.
John Barr’s poems have been published in six books, four fine press editions, and many magazines, including The New York Times, Poetry, and others. John was also the Inaugural President of the Poetry Foundation. His newest book, The Boxer of Quirinal, was published by Red Hen Press and longlisted for the PEN/Voelcker Award for a Poetry Collection in 2024. You can view more of his work on his web site, or Instagram, and sign up for his free newsletter.
