after Kristin Hersh
Never mind math, mind
fire: underneath
and shredding, still does.
What good’s fortune meant
to do—an aperture, a slur—
fault what you turn into
upon looking in any wrong
direction. Where did you,
when did you, meager
youthface and no shirt.
Fine to be alone, to fall
in a box of light alone, to take
it with you allover, finding
certain others, therefore, gone.
Limit seen of snowsqualls,
sandstone, snails—none
your fault but find it here—
a hundred blood footprints
on the bathroom tile
and you’re never getting out.
from The Dance of No Hard FeelingsFind it in the library
Copyright © 2009 Mark Bibbins
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.