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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.

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.