Steve Salmoni

Steven Salmoni’s recent publications include Landscapes, With Green Mangoes (Chax Press), poems in Spinning Jenny, Spiral Orb, Versal, and Upstairs at Duroc, and articles in The Salt Companion to Charles Bernstein, Studies in Travel Writing and the Journal of Narrative Theory.  He teaches at Pima Community College and serves on the Board of Directors for POG, a Tucson-based poetry and arts organization.

from Notes for a Theory of Proximities

Bliss was made of boxes. But what does not change does not
change, not the prediction of designs nor their division nor the
measure that would yield the term which, thus changed, would
give itself to desire for its term. “Everywhere,” you say, you’d
want history to find its current.

Did I first want to say that a sea of grey circles would suggest
nothing other than a letter? Imagine the sheer difference
the sound impressed upon its evidence. Interior and interior,
in time, and lake a threefold image of the binding of the day
before. The null set is one’s own findings, set upon one’s
findings, whereas the picture folds the lake to find some fold
in continuity. Unbroken sea marks the line with letters to
answer these.


“Glass is alone” resembles bird. I’d draw the figure as a figure
of its memory. What follows when, like the dove, in disposition.

I dove into the cornea of an island bird. September lay green,
the cornea of an estranged, arcuate sleep, the island, in bird,
consumed in the island’s refrain.

The man who resembles bird attempts to live. To think of how
this looks, as antecedent. Margin adds incalculable margin,
the shallow’s lap strewn in the bird’s refrain.


Glass, too, is the expression of a glass, whose stem is then the
vault’s expression of its precipice. Light snow continues to fall,
our window shade up to that line of glass in a glass. Add half
the non-answer, the one that you are after. I had a window
adorned with leaves, halving time with each addition.

The glass, outside of glass, may be described as a betrayal. But,
to keep to the essence of the piece is false. “Border-glass sounds
better,” I said by lightning. It began to lightning.

There shall be leaves, the saying goes. One intends to stand aside,
and the answer is, well, very well. The plane of the plane and also
what is clarified.


If ground should arise from the perspective of the changing
colors of the landscape, the green mark separates the projected
depth from the more measured confidence in the illusion. I’ve
borne the green void as requested. I assume by green that time
has been assigned a blank.

In a few hours came the season’s difference. Years of metallic
weather, for lack of the ideal world. Spring does not visit, does
not tolerate any period of rest. Upon admission of air to green
a water glides through hem of touch, a slow decay of seasoned
wood, if one would take a summary of measures. Some thing
resides within itself, the common name for tree almost persuades.