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Open the book. Scan the artful

page that pins things up—the cryptic

bud working too to square the sense

of a syndicated order, its siphon

blossom flare stiff in the bract, an act

happens off that slender moil

you can’t get through, sends streaks

through an arch distortion of

the core material—

bright green piping from

the “throat,” “gut” where still

some question drives—can you live

within the resolution of

momentary detail, above it, propped

up over where the words hang

in rigid combines stitching through

their dark debris field and fail to discern—

how do I—turning back, the shagged

bark, felt hairs kissing down

the bracketed midrib grace of—

the crop the forced part?

from The Great Medieval Yellows Find more by Emily Wilson at the library

Copyright © 2015 Emily Wilson
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

Published in Emily Wilson Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.