a poem to be folded into the shape of a slipper
A grackle has no interest in the far corner of the field to which it is
briefly pinned. Admittedly, I put it there. Another piece of architecture
giving the elements something to act upon. Dent in the windshield.
Creak in the door. Day lavishly without language. A better subject
for paint, bitter subject of presupposition. A man, rubbing together
two dimes, removes a shovelful of dirt beneath his freshly constructed
thought. Distraction: the best way of looking at anything. I have no interest
in a perfectly clear glass of water on the kitchen counter, in perfection
turning the bird into an embodiment of disturbance. Grass drying
on pavement, dieing on pavement. Underneath opacity, it is difficult
to see. The Dictionary of Symbols is suspiciously free of an entry for
the aforementioned grackle. Absolved of concern, it should be observed
that a fact can’t be
corroborated by its bearing of the earth on its back.