“Triptych of Things,” “In Space” and “Over by Night”

“Triptych of Things,” “In Space” and “Over by Night”

Triptych of Things


A favorite blue shirt wears my loyalty.

Beside –

hangs a pima cotton. Fine stitch

for my affection.


When young, I wore a glove of wonder

snug to my hand.

Held with fame of little round stars

falling in day.

Crack of air – a herald for sight to arc

along a shirt-blue sky

down to celebration in my head.


Survivor of probability – a time kiss –

a table I love.

Human rubbed into surface.

Carved names and finger smears.

Vibration of discourse passed down

through five generations in its fiber and grain.

Now, with a resting computer on its rib cage.

The fine-stitch evolutionary arc of thing.

Descendant of same atoms – it could be a tree

if not sculpted by intent. Once organic,

now a pause in being.

Still, it may be a part of me, as I will not part with it.

In Space

It is not Mars

but canvas upon which to paint interior space.

Place the small of human creation

in competition with natural force.

Going will be short distance – as far as

little round balls of imagination.

Fortunate heads.

Earth, wrapped paper thin with its art.

Delicate and breathtaking.

But I will live in an upside-down house

on Mars.

An ever-changing room of make.

Annihilation pressed against its glass

to charge what I feel –

and breath will be given.

Over by Night

An overcast day

when something so slight as the dim

pulls me from emotion.

Redacted on confused genes,

these pins of small things make numb

without reason.

Where is the strong – the iron skillet in my hand?

The excitement to exist

as in my apostle canine's eyes.

Or the narrative in my mind,

running sixteen-millimeter

film of optimism.

I bite their tongues, for redress.

Zentropa Europa – I am now on your train.

An unfamiliar in the night.

Eyes on tracks lit, appointed by the dark.

Ears magnetized by your movement.

Until I arrive at this thought. A lake,

not forty feet from my state of mind –

hangs on a whisper before ice.

I will wrench a bone in complex

– an instantaneous freeze of skeleton and consciousness.

Trick my genes, so they flee abandonment.

I emerge in command

where those tracks lead differently –

the sound of blood pumping.

The frost of my breath tells the air I am living

About the Author

Leon Fedolfi

Leon Fedolfi is an aspiring poet. He has published in The Raw Art Review, High Shelf Press and others. He has a book of poetry, UnInvented Ear, publishing with UnCollected Press in January, 2022.