414 Readings


All morning the hornet banging against the glass.
Some kind of shelves where should have been a door.
Rumors of the celebrity returning to town, barely
Two words to rub together. A mouth’s a kind of map.
Make no mistake about it. My arms are growing rounder.
I’ve got a kind of quiet. It’s like I’m a circle, the way I walk.
Only two edges to rub together. It’s like my arms aren’t matching up.
Some kind of rumor where should have been a hornet.
A cello returning like your body, two pianos back to back,
Curling into one another. Slow quick quick, stop quick quick.
It’s like I’m holding someone, the way I waltz.
My face is drying up. It’s like my mouth is sleeping.
The walls all arc around me. The shelves all hold their edges.
A cello’s a kind of hornet. A body’s a kind of door.
Some kind of celebrity banging against the glass.
Posted 09/05/14
First published in Fence: Fall/Winter 2000-2001. The issue is out of print now, but you can see it, as well as support/subscribe to Fence here: www.fenceportal.org
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