Beauty: a fruit
we look at without trying to seize it. It's
my argument against a certain kind of
poem, one that charts conflict, then steps outside as if to say “I
quit.” A man was beating his son in the bathroom of a pancake house
in Williamsburg. As they walked out, my friend stared at the father.
“You didn't like what you heard?” the man yelled. No, and no, and
no. What counter-balance can
memory make, a man listening back to hear my friend say
no. No doesn't
leave the
restaurant, stays still-in-movement like a Vine. Kindness, like
trauma, repeats itself. But it needs to pierce the skin.
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