by Ann Lauterbach
The unobserved cautions its subject. Too many clicks spoil the image.
We live in the trip wire of the gregarious few. Noted.
Now calm down and say something useful to all those unnoted
others who preen for our signature, our dumb addendum.
Violence wears a pretty red bow. See? A gift of the Magi.
An endless cut and a pool of leaves scavenge grass
into glory; history’s reliquary is a loose and virulent wound.
The mind is dense with color, a foldout screen not yet torn.
We were on the floor, pressing our bodies, our limbs
scalded with urgency, as if in a desert, as if under the sun.
Hunter and prey indistinguishable, lacerated, mutant.
Are you watching the spectacle? Have you fallen asleep?
The angels are suffering; their huge wings are wet.
They have not agreed to be absent although their time is up.
to Tim Clark
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