Posts Tagged ‘ Richard Meier ’

Poetry: Richard Meier


A negative construct, the tree in the sun through a tree, the building in they built the building for its space, the space we can still see before exterior walls and windows and a roof. Is it a building yet, steel-forms, concrete, span, and how unlike the human body is this building built at its final scale, adding layers or being layers, the bricklayer with a t-shirt bandanaed around his nose and mouth, the bricklayer below the sky-isn’t-blue-above-this-blue tarp, growth rings of plans and colors. Image of a microscopic building set among life (the book of common flowers with its names and full-page plates) and detritus — mineral, organic, once manufactured — of a wasteland, gestating. At what point in the building is space enviable? Union stickers on a construction helmet (yellow) hanging from a young woman’s backpack. Clothes are constructed from pieces, after the gestation of elements — silk, oil, cotton; we were injected into a mold that can be removed and outlasts what it’s shaping, unlike the wax that makes a single ring with figures out of its own disappearance, nothing created or destroyed but lasts in other forms. Dreams, coral, laws, rock walls, rules, handclaps accumulate. Read more »