out from what it needs to be.
And there has been no special
isolation. There has been no
quite walks out in the autumn.
No trying to get at it
as if with the absence of life
brings one closer to it, and then
to what has gone on further
down the road because of a sound
you thought you were being beckoned by.
But we find we are only trying
to keep as a surprise for ourselves,
the buzzing uneaten colors
of fall, the water necklace, and fish streams
a couple of page turning episodes
that is probably a good lesson
for artists of all kind. A peripheral
text draining out of an accordion
like glint off the bay. The possibility
of illuminating the witness
as though everything in her has been left out.
1 comment:
Beautiful ending to this poem
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