In Ipsissima Verba

I could never explain
how the word array
describes the principle
of frond arrangement
in black walnut trees
to anyone in the mill.
Forget the black locusts
erupting here and there
across the strip-mined fields
like mortar explosions.
I’m still working on the swirl
of the weeping willows.

No. You go through the gate
and no matter what time it is
you say “Morning,” all day long
knowing maybe you’re the only one
who knows you’re in mourning,
and you call everybody “Uncle,”
and everybody in the mill
has the same initial,
which doesn’t stand for Francis,
and you tell Uncle Melanie
F. Risovich you love her
and want her to have your babies
so she’ll know you’re crazy
in case you ever find yourself
so unaccountably joyful
you start yammering
about how birds feed or fly
or various aspects of design
you see in different trees
or how you feel like the young girl
you once saw doing one-hand cartwheels
down the middle of Elm Street,
her blonde hair sweeping the asphalt.

:: Timothy Russell, Adversaria (1993)

No comments:

Post a Comment