In the photosensitive ground
my vision sleeps, stalked in love
and dread, in the metaphorical
fund we would be chemically
composed in, a simple order scanning
shoots moving whiplike overhead,
tripwire threads sprung from the least
constant, but to fix the sliding
sense, cluster-feeding subjects, things
we do on the retinal trap, still
we do them darker for the fovea
mills inside its nest, small
harlequin shark the eye bequeaths
somehow stranger to itself
astride the compassing mouth,
tensile glues, the mailed
shimmed enameling traveling to snap
the snap-strike future of its view, what
I feared, tinged, dissolved.
from The Great Medieval Yellows Find more by Emily Wilson at the library
Copyright © 2015 Emily Wilson
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.