What can I do with this silence, the sovereignty
expressed in the cantankerous absence of mass
five? Whose clock now rhymes with that of the hummingbird,
engaged with bee balm, three bells gone, literati
of a summer afternoon? Forget that first word,
the Ovidian ratio that ought to pass
through the body’s self-liberation, and then turn
through its own degradation. How extravagant
I have become, a mark on a printed page, such stern
evidence of structure, yet nothing consonant,
nothing given by a rule so inelegant.
Copyright © 2013 Jay Wright
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.