This was but a ruse to distract you from the grouse itself, as it flaps, an obese moth, further off in the underbrush. Notice instead the subtle blendings of bar and shade, everything ish, everything soft, the apotheosis of feather. But as your heart can appreciate, its terror is a sumo wrestler.
From childhood he dreamed of being
able to keep with him all the objects in
the world lined up on his shelves and
bookcases. He denied lack, oblivion or
even the likelihood of a missing piece.
Order streamed from Noah in blue tri-
angles and as the pure fury of his
classifications rose around him,
engulfing his life they came to be called
waves by others, who drowned, a
world of them.
Already patience has set you next to someone else,
two pill bottles in a medicine cabinet.
from Ian Williams, “Schumann’s Arabesque, Op. 18”
but (now and then) you’ve got to tell somebody
and a reader has I guess, in spite of all, ears
from Robert Kroetsch, “for a poet who has stopped writing”
from Claudia Rankine, Don’t Let Me Be Lonely
as if I had never walked
except with you, my heart,
as if I could not walk
except with you,
as if I could not sing
except when you sing.
We love we know not what, and therefore everything allures us.
We can’t help the fiction that we’re in each day.
We’re in each day in the same way we’re in flames.
from Graham Foust, “Everyone’s Juvenilia”