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.