How Feel­ing Too Much Is like Track­ing or Taxi­dermy

The Iowa Review - - NEWS -

If I keep my binoc­u­lars fo­cused on the past field, some­thing might ar­rive to coax the present field from its ghost.

Only the rude mead­ows snow. Echoes die the way sheep lie down, shorn and in melan­choly groups.

I crouch small at the quick of the earth. When I act, it is merely a catas­tro­phe. I cre­ate a fic­tion of my breath when I breathe out.

When the soon-footed print of a mam­mal comes, the sound is like reeds as they knock at one an­other, like mea­sur­ing cups nest­ing in a drawer.

Wire me in a trap, but my ten­drils will swell up. As my lover springs from the min­er­als, I spring from the fern-bit­ten dust.

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