Tonight outside the plate glasseach insect is made of a long tube of wood,as if the insect had become a treeto give the tree a voice.And these pink spatters,these crumbled parlor doilies,these milkweed blossomsfade as if antique,and the milkweed does not report on the condition of its leaves,the height of its flowers,its life without bureaucracy,nor does the lilac filtering the mentholated air,or the bee drowsing on the sillafter straining through the broken window screenlike Rilke wheedling his way into a palace.Or the brook that runs by the cabintalking nonsense.Or the willow that slouches as if it were in a classroomwhere the teacher bores it.So forgive me please already.I am sorry for speaking for nature.But it was asking for it.…
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The New Yorker (Digital) - 1 Issue, Mar-16-15