Issue 232, Spring 2020
I was reading a biography of Pugin. Architecture
was how Pugin avoided God.
This much is evident. When he slipped out at night
to drift down to the water he was a smoke.
He did not look up at the moon. We can be sure
that any bargain he made was intentional
especially those he bound in straps made of snow.
I was reading a biography of Pugin. Exile
is something like a hearse is something, tungsten
or zinc. You are born through it. Some few
emerge from that labor wearing something
their lovers, later, will call a caul. “Look, a caul,”
they will say. But they will be wrong about that.
Later they will dream of the circus on fire.
I was reading a biography of Pugin. Funny
that at one point he should have fancied himself
a maker of chairs, when actually
he was a student of gravity. So much gravity!
he said to himself on his walks. What can I bid
for it. What tract can I force into its hand.
Gravity: it is a debt I suspect incurred by God.
I was reading a biography of Pugin, who took
a cloud and rolled it up and sliced it into
equal segments, minor arcs. He offered these
to the choristers who had gathered around him.
He hated being watched while he worked
so he planed their sockets out. He made them
so smooth even music couldn’t wake them.