Noah Eli Gordon
Sara Veglahn
Joshua Marie Wilkinson
And the Body was Left to Hover
One enters a question as though it were a house, given to shapeless warmth. If you close the doors, another will open, the steam of the word outside. What matches the apology, but stands against us and our walls. To walk toward talking is to lay bare articulation and its attendant green light, the forest enclosing the forest. Obviousness anointing itself thusly. Take this letter and open it. The opener reveals something against the trees, the trees filter the light as if through a falls of green dust. I am walking toward their talk. To approve the general openness is a glimmer towards atmosphere. And then it starts snowing us in again in a horrible mess. Green thinking, gray horizon, a road and its curves that tell one nothing but alteration’s inevitability, these like a letter unfolded in a film and given subtitles in the most foreign of languages. Make a moment anointed with keys. Make the attendant clamor give up its language. And the yellow birds fall out of the cut-open horizon as if scored by a metallic clanking. The cuts one asks for doing their diligence, due in their diligence. It’s dullness that covers my pride in awe for the elastic world’s lasting. The life of a bird is tragic. The life of a bird is training to become a bird. The periodic glint of the mirror in your eye mars you, loses episodes of blood into the country. This was how the house did its asking.
modernamericanpoetry | 07 | next