Monday, February 16, 2015


(Everyone hath in him a Spirit, with which he may be angry.) Write a poem in prepositions. Massage this “with” as “through” or “against.” Meaning withheld, magnifies. The message was for you alone, my friend writes, in all its bitterness. If I want to keep things quiet, I will. The thrush, this crisp Monday morning, doesn't answer to demands. Nor the honking egret, close cousin to regret. Regret postulates recollection, recollection the church basket in which you throw your change. Altar, alters. Where none finds. And what of the parentheses: are they sidelines or the field whose artificial dust rises when a player's foot lands on it? The stadium is parenthetical. We hold us to our containers, snuggle inside like the sick cat on Bryant's lap. His organs fail, but still he totters to the kitchen. We watch him constantly for a good sign. Await the years that grow inside parentheses. The hyphen is a flash drive that holds our photos in hock.

--16 February 2015

No comments: