Spent
months and months, onceon a sofa I’d seen under a tree, driving homefrom Vermont, it wasn’t
the sofa made me think of heartachethe disposing of something important, it was
the suddenness of any thought
and then once you’ve had it. I could probably recapitulateall of the art from the trip, but
shouldn’t. A Sudden Gust of Wind, I will say—and, god,the intricacy of the shot, down to woman’s barely lifted left foot
as her sheaf of paper is blownup into an unimaginable arc—a reimagination ofHokusai’s Thirty-Six Views of Mt. Fuji. Surely, you have already
laid yourself down on the floorof a forest and watched. Like an underwater windparting stalks of heavy grass. That not until I learn to stop
the new computer reminding me tomorrowmarks my mother’s birth, do I physically count the years
she could have finished…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, March/April 2024