home back







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.  





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