Matthew Olzmann: Letter to the Person Who Carved His Initials into the Oldest Living Longleaf Pine in North America

Tell me what it’s like to live without
curiosity, without awe. To sail
on clear water, rolling your eyes
at the kelp reefs swaying
beneath you, ignoring the flicker
of mermaid scales in the mist,
looking at the world and feeling
only boredom. To stand
on the precipice of some wild valley,
the eagles circling, a herd of caribou
booming below, and to yawn
with indifference. To discover
something primordial and holy.
To have the smell of the earth
welcome you to everywhere.
To take it all in, and then,
to reach for your knife.

Matthew Olzmann: Letter to a Bridge Made of Rope--

To the shepherd, herding his flock
through the gorge below, it must appear as if I walk
on the sky. I feel like that too: so little between me

and The Fall. But this is how faith works its craft.
One foot set in front of the other, while the wind
rattles the cage of the living, and the rocks down there

cheer every wobble, and your threads keep
this braided business almost intact saying: Don’t worry.
I’ve been here a long time. You’ll make it across.

Matthew Olzmann: Letter to Larry Levis

As if by some unholy, digital sorcery, last week,
when I typed your last name into the internet,
my computer came back with,
"Did you mean to type Levi's®"? And I said,
"No, I meant Larry Levis." And my computer said,
"Did you mean to type Larry Levi's®"? And I said,
"Oh Lord, grant me the strength to bring no hammer
down through Thy machine." And my computer said,
"All Levi's Brand Apparel, on sale at select locations!"
And I said, "I give up." This must be
your more famous ancestor
who made clothing from bolts of the cloth
we now call "denim." In the early days, it was overalls
and popular among cowboys, miners and farmers.
Later, it was jeans and jackets and prevalent among
all who were alive. These new garments were praised
for their "durability," meaning: they could last.
What the hell lasts anymore? Some of your poems, I hope,
but definitely not the cities or rivers or roads we pave
from one end of the imagination to the other.
And not our names. Yours, for example, even now,
expunged and replaced as I type it. The clothing sold to me
by Larry Levi's eventually wears thin, won't endure.
These jeans, purchased forever ago, have holes.
One torn into the left knee. One in the right pocket
where I keep spare change. Everything falls through.
I walk away from the desk. In your name, I leave
this trail of nickels.