The Kitchen Chimney
by Robert Frost (1923)

Builder, in building the little house,
In every way you may please yourself;
But please please me in the kitchen chimney:
Don’t build me a chimney upon a shelf.

However far you must go for bricks,
Whatever they cost a-piece or a pound,
But me enough for a full-length chimney,
And build the chimney clear from the ground.

It’s not that I’m greatly afraid of fire,
But I never heard of a house that throve
(And I know of one that didn’t thrive)
Where the chimney started above the stove.

And I dread the ominous stain of tar
That there always is on the papered walls,
And the smell of fire drowned in rain
That there always is when the chimney’s false.

A shelf’s for a clock or vase or picture,
But I don’t see why it should have to bear
A chimney that only would serve to remind me
Of castles I used to build in air.














Revolución: O/H
by by Anna Mace

Started as a whisper
slowly on the plane
grew like a cloud bomb, or
scattered photograms
we couldn’t quite see
foetus-formed, magnificently
breaking on the shore, those
black speckled shells upon arrival
like underground worlds
netted light on the walls,
or were they tessellating flutebeacons
enveloped in smoke?
Corners in cafes we sat, trembling
fingers pinned to letters on books
pointing to O/H, 1959; 2017
we believed the sounds it scored
crusting in between lips, in the air,
in the tense of the words
we couldn’t quite share?
That thing you said, strung
like jewels cobalt-bright,
you confessed to conceal
in fists full of symbols
lost on the streets of Santa Clara,
o/h, we were lost in the night
but still, expanding moments
heighten refrain
torches of ink smudge
political curses on walls,
or neon maps in the rain,
brighten joints for the rich,
it was not ours to lose, hope
it is only for Saffron
who can build shields in signs,
while fishing for time
in furrows of brows, indigo eyes
quietly voicing nothing but light,
it is not ours to lose, life
it is just ours to find.