Sarah Gridley
In the haptic scripture, all cups are running over. To one portion
of the curve where quartz is ground, blue adds fable to fable.
The ledger groans. To think what blood
cannot accommodate. Or to praise
what it can. What can be hoped to balance where
the numbers hunch to life? The ledger spills. Sun re-strings
its gold to eye. Green begins
its supplication. In absurd attachment
to a known convexity, the outstretched body
spools the weight. To subtract its spine from the gulling
shadows, sleep unfits the column.
If elsewhere you loved the penciled figures moving
consummately toward horizon, you must promise here
to yield up counting. In the drinking place
where nothing listens. And the supplicant hand
is fixed in time. In time
with the weather: the slack and tautness
of the water, the stashed durations
between what is.
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