Three Poems from The Event
Stacey Tran

They told this

in all cities.

The shape

to examine it

closely. But the

spectator. All eyes

in the cottage at

twilight.

*

Well, this is my plotting

and precautions. But you,

living how it happens

with you. I am useful,

irregular: exposed

to exist only for you.

You are too close to

matter for you. But meanwhile

I am the furniture

of this room, the scattered

view, like a river

moving on someplace.

And so as well:

notions that are unusable because

too general. Nothing

applies without

a subsidiary mass someday.

*

Only the day to

matter for you. You are alive

around bright levels

of incidence

filling space up.

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