CONJUNCTIONS: A Web Exclusive
Green Squash on Gray Wagon on County Road 54
It wants to be let out
From our fingers our hands our ragged vertebrae and rubrics
the telluric nerve
Where we learn by heart and rummage how to batten
The sky the signal and random valence of light the eye unlatching
: the pure green shock of it, fruit
The sky lengthens
The color of fine dust at haying time
No Extreme Is Parmenttary
What shall we two do weight of absence & customary law hung
within us like a back bone?
If you are so passionate as you say (and as I dare
but not believe
it so), it cannot last as long as
velvet in snow
spoors and weed roots braiding
or whsssst of the gray owl at dusk whitebranches blossoming
And foraging: Ruines of War we suffer Equally: plundering
loneliness how so ever unworthy
I am in myself I would as soon forget
as forget you wakeful in the thick branches of evening
Title: from the betrothal letters of Margaret Cavendish, #14
There, Just There, Where the Syllables Touch
Like the multitude in a commonwealth wanting
The fire is cold.
Early deaths have decomposed
And tilted mirrors.
Birds can not rise from the roof. My mouth is
Sin, my darling, sin is invisible.
It requires a warm coat. And cutlery. Linen
It asks for pulse, for practice.
You can run your hand over its fragile
Astonishing how rapture keeps.
Words sing like crickets even as I wash
house, there just there: winter
All its weight lit up.
Title: from The Earth as Air, Gustaf Sobin.
Italics: from Biography in the First Person, Stephen Dunn.