Give It Back

Don Bogen

Give it back–I made it all up
That alcove where surplus glowed under dust
Unfinished, an attic space with nails poking down
Khaki of sheet metal, orange flickering in tubes
Ephemeral as the smells, which were plywood, solder and Kents
Color words, smell words–I put them in a book
Everything there is still missing
Two lies of remembrance: it was always winter
Things could speak

Could Not Speak

Don Bogen

Could not speak but only arrange
Made tiles in a tile factory, painted on them
Nine different scenes: trees on cliffs, vineyards, estates
Permanent, unreachable under the glaze
Could not speak but worked at a table with others
Signed the clients’ names
Breathed clay, clay wash on my fingernails

In fall made crèche figures, painted them
Simplified folds of the swaddling
Two dots for eyes, lips one red stroke
God after God after God
Could not speak but arranged them in lines
Cut off the excess, smashed the defective
Mixed paint, fed the oven, baked and made them

Flat scenes, little men, little animals
In lines as if they were an army marching
Sold at the fair: cut off and wrapped up
Hung on walls or set out at holidays
Stiff, bone-light, caught in sheen
Could not speak but was everywhere
Maker of what is made