DEAR UNIVERSE,
In all this calm,
in all this mist,
these vague shaped
continents
begin to drift.
A finger lifts,
falls again.
A foghorn sounds,
passionless.
Do you wonder
what we are
in all this calm,
in all this mist.
Wolf prints.
Red clay.
A slender wrist.
Murder. Magic.
Ballet.
—from Rattle #31, Summer 2009
__________
Wendy Videlock: “I think I am a devotee of poetry in large part because it refuses paraphrase, has little interest in good manners, and doesn’t have a dress code.” (web)
