Chris Forhan Model Making

Model Making



The word is dead and who doesn’t know it

and know the only urgent work and true

is done in the hush when talk stops, and who

doesn’t sense a sacred luck, a sacred loneliness then

as I did—ten, eleven, hunched at a desk

in my dim bedroom, hands aglow

in low lamplight, a dribble of glue

oozing from the tube onto the edge

of a plastic fuselage, my thoughts beyond

the silver wing I would place there, my thoughts

whirling in air already around the real

imagined thing, glinting, banking out of the clouds,

and I glanced at the window—black

against blacker sky: the backyard maple,

limbs lifting in a gust, it was

a leaping beast that would

have me, grasping, and oh, I said, oh.


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