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Monologue

 

It seemed the thing was juster

with its angles driven keener

giving depth and variation

to incising swallows black

along the traplines, slubs

in kinds of silk bent to

the spine, rounded, debossed

so I made the shadows, there

was room to mine the dry distracted

areas of sweet astride

the stark waiting to split the seasoned

cortex over-ridging the packed

flesh, the ruffed flesh marled

the bole, it was not flesh that glowed

off somewhat else but a dark mass

before the nineteenth century, though

I fell upon the work encumbered

as I was in verging snow

in a way of seeing through the stranded

vaults offwards, from the oak

the double-banded tucked and sheening

thing, world, withal

its stencil-webbed matters passing there.

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.

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