whomever stood on the green green bridge watching her shadow lengthen.
Sun-pocket. Sunflower. Seedling, you
brittle blossoming something the room clears of dailyness.
Daily, the bottom teeth of summer
in winter, chewing through
ropes, raree show rapunzeled, which is realism
like this that there can be. These are really happened
tell me again stories I will. I will again against it.
Diving bell in a glass of water. Cacti atmosphere.
A perfect piece of pink cake
complicating perfection’s tendency to falter.
Who left it on the counter? Who walked through the room
as though through a composition? The speaker enters quietly,
closes a window, clearing dust from the chair
to sit in the center of the poem, invigorated
with inky awkward blankness.
The bottom teeth of summer
in winter chattering: here’s the moon. Here’s the moon
splashed over two dozen calendars. Here, the kids are grown.
The day is long. The bed, wide as a battleship, waits
in its buoyancy. Imagine a life and live in it. Imagine dead as ever
walking a cut lily back to water. Crazy epic crazier still trying
to put down roots. Summer in winter like a speaker
in water. The loudest electric sound is nothing compared
to the soundest perforation. My paper life. My paper doll.
Your paper boy. Sun sun sunflower seed summer you
can say you love in a poem’s inky blank awkwardness
your paper boy. Sun sun sunflower seed summer you
to the soundest perforation. My paper life. My paper doll
in water. The loudest electric sound is nothing compared
to put-down roots. Summer in winter like a speaker
walking a cut lily back to water. Crazy epic crazier still trying
in its buoyancy. Imagine a life and live in it. Imagine dead as ever
the day is long. The bed, wide as a battleship, waits,
splashed over two dozen calendars. Here, the kids are grown
in winter chattering: here’s the moon. Here’s the moon.
The bottom teeth of summer
with inky awkward blankness
to sit in the center of the poem, invigorated,
closes a window, clearing dust from the chair.
As though through a composition, the speaker enters. Quietly,
who left it on the counter? Who walked through the room
complicating perfection’s tendency to falter.
A perfect piece of pink cake.
Diving bell in a glass of water. Cacti atmosphere,
tell me again stories I will I will. Again, against it
like this that there can be. These are really happened
ropes, raree show rapunzeled. Which is realism
in winter: Chewing through
daily the bottom teeth of summer?
Brittle blossoming something the room clears of dailyness?
Sun-pocket. Sunflower. Seedling, you
whomever stood on the green green bridge watching her shadow lengthen
in winter, braided into
the bottom teeth of summer.
About this poem:
"My wife’s name is Sommer. We were married in winter at a courthouse in Denver after spending a total of only 19 hours together. The following day, at a packed art gallery downtown, I read this poem for her. The poem repeats in reverse order each of its lines starting from the exact center; it’s a form I stole from Peter Gizzi’s ‘Vincent, Homesick for the Land of Pictures.’"
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