When I first saw her a few summers ago I felt.
Her photogenic spit.
I was climbing a coruscating staircase.
In my flammable skin. To be so full of.
Everything. At her age. It is very difficult.
A singer manqué. Among a small host of poets.
than the men. Quaffing schnapps. No lens
could describe her.
Such longings: Errant. Verdant.
To have a good time. And dream. In one’s own
country. The lack. Of. Everything.
The confusion. It is very difficult. One needs.
One’s own set of golden books. What if.
A ladder were. Miraculous. Extended. Across
a nursery for new stars.
Copyright © 2002 C.D. Wright
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.