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.
Smoke mixes with his frozen breath.
Robinson tends to forget there are places
other than here. He and his wife could pack up,
start a little family:
We would look very much
like one bottle of milk, standing alongside
ten thousand other bottles of milk.
When he didn’t return the wild rounds of applause, we had to
fill him up with our loathing. We had to fill him up with test results
and government-sanctioned inquiries, just to be sure we were able
to set the record straight. And after we filled him up almost to bursting
we finally had to let him go, as a child, indifferent, lets go of a balloon
in a parking lot, and watches the asterisk
beside his own name floating away.
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.
Muttering some mantrah, some drum-song of murder
To keep his rage brightening, making his skin
Intolerable, spurred by the rosettes, the cain-brands,
Wearing the spots from the inside,
Rounding some revenge. Going like a prayer-wheel,
The head dragging forward, the body keeping up,
The hind legs lagging. He coils, he flourishes
The blackjack tail as if looking for a target,
Hurrying through the underworld, soundless.
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
from the front the building looks
like a giant spreadsheet there would be
thousands of rectangles
thousands of workers staring out like
little numbers waiting to be shifted up
shifted down summed up averaged
If I have something important to say
I hope I live here long enough
To say it gracefully. The wind moves
Everything. Nothing is exempt.
In the space between seasons
Which is one night in a life,
The corn beats inside its stalks, waiting for bloom.
The wheat flowers, falls easily.
The clouds become enormous & have names.