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Fig. 14 Just As We Rarely Consider What Lies
Underground,
To A Mole, We Might Imagine The World Above
The Surface
Is A Large, Possibly Terrifying Blank
Who the empty chair once held.
Whose hands smoothed
the loose covering. The light
and how it lifts the pewter
pitcher to our eyes. The need for
selection means that every story contains, and is
surrounded by, blank spaces, some more
significant than others. This morning
I found my mother's cross. Junk metal
soft enough to bend. Forgive me.
I have omitted everything.(The line in italics quoted from
Maps of the Imagination: The Writer As Cartographer, Peter Turchi.)
marrow; or the night you left
clean as my upturned throat my wrought-
iron tongue
of waking:carnivorouschemical
I have beenmetronomepiano wire
afraid to waver
a moment ago
is archaeology:summary of
vanishedafterimage
bring me sustenance: what remains
of you: nothing
but a yellow dress
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