By Rae Armantrout
Ok, we’ve rendered
the rendition
how often?
What were we trying
to get rid of?
We exposed the homeless
character of desire
to the weather.
Shall we talk
about the weather
worsening four times
faster than expected,
eight times,
until the joy
of pattern recognition
kicks in?
Until the crest
of the next ridge
is what remains
of division.
Source: Poetry (October 2019)
Poet Bio
More By This Poet
Twilight
Where there’s smoke
there are mirrors
and a dry ice machine,
industrial quality fans.
If I’ve learned anything
about the present moment
•
But who doesn’t
love a flame,
the way one leaps
into being
full-fledged,
then leans over
to chat
•
Already the light
is retrospective,
sourceless,
is losing itself
though the trees
are clearly limned.
Pinocchio
Strand. String.
In this dream,
the paths cross
and cross again.
They are spelling
a real boy
out of repetition.
•
Each one
is the one
real boy.
Each knows
he must be
wrong
about this, but
he can’t feel
how.
•
The fish
and the fisherman,
the pilot,
the princess,
the fireman and
the ones on fire.
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Ars Poetica
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Think
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A wishbone branch falls
from my Grandma Thelma’s oak
for me.
What do you know about magic? e1 asks.
E bends e old body down, turns
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a cross, places it around my neck.
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