Fred Wah

ArtKnot Thirty Six

Looks like the Angel got through. Wrapped.
Swaddled. In between the rock and the river.

Seen speaking as having been given mere fact.
Mirroring on the wall,  not me, begrunden.

Watch who'd turned us round, turning and stopping
forever taking leaves from the bottom of the tree.

Spectacle of Mrs. Erickson's totem. Private parts.
Thread round desire like a crack through the cup.

Stare, stare -- nothing there. Camp. Earth. House.
Poof! said the beak. Not a ripple. By a hair.

The East Village Poetry Web