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About this Poem 

"Michel Serres tells us that 'every form is draped in an infinity of adherences'; this has haunted my writing for some time. I’ve begun a series of poems in which I want to un-'drape' subjects that I have written about in the past, and release them from the upper layers of 'adherences' of meaning that I have previously explored. Beneath my understanding of these subjects, I am finding a sense of fable, and it is at that level I’ve begun to work. The writings of Bataille have been an excellent provocation for me in this work, as I seek a deeper, more disquieting relationship to the known, to what I perceive as the knowable and the unknowable."
—Rusty Morrison

Measurement Fable

Rusty Morrison

like water in water —George Bataille




Eggs, transparent and sometimes red-veined as insect wings, might be hidden
in bark crevices 

or a scatter of tawny leaves.

The distance between one gestation and the next, a pleat of the dress I wear 
carelessly, 

as if I could sew myself another.

Practiced, my tendon-reflex where the tunnel narrows its halo
into a noose. I trust 

dexterity as a kind of nourishment, as I believe my own 
mother couldn’t.

To own, beauty is the first lie of it, and brief 
as incident

is gray 
thistles turning silver in sunrise as if for my eyes alone.

I see you surround me, mother, measuring what my exoskeleton 
withstands. Embellishment

is thin. When the eye inside blinks, its bone-house splinters. No eye inside sky 
but an insect 

drone can cause the entire horizon, seasonal
as hindsight 

which follows rain. No death 

will stop measurement
spiraling out, a long ribbon of salt I must choose repeatedly to cross.

Copyright © 2014 by Rusty Morrison. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on January 7, 2014. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Copyright © 2014 by Rusty Morrison. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on January 7, 2014. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Rusty Morrison

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I might travel his death a creaking and swaying beneath me stop
there are static expressions freed now and passing along the walls stop
an object isn’t what is hidden but what smiles out from the hiding please

with only the slightest effort I might abandon

poem

No sensation of falling, which suggests that this condition may be flight.

My eyes might be open or not. My coffee poured into a cup or

onto the countertop. This, a ball of saved rubberbands or the thick clot of tremors

I usually keep deep in the drawer that I can trust will stick

when I