Camp­bell Mcgrath

The Iowa Review - - FRONT PAGE - Carol ann davis

The eye can’t but keep its hop­ping grief nor the ear its screech­ing child who won’t lis­ten to rea­son all in the high branches hops

a lyric com­plaint and can’t but be such a one by whom my sugar wa­ter my fake nec­tar in solo cup’s long ne­glected

while in canopy some­one wor­ries tch-tch some­one an­swers back blue-it blue-it nowhere but out­ward

the tch-tch of worry flies year that be­gan in si­lence end­ing in this left­over racket and how could it not of its an­niver­sary come singing blue-it blue-it we can’t but an­swer what can’t us back to whom we call O my sugar wa­ter my fake nec­tar in thin­ning

no no no with dusty fin­gers he calls rag­ing against all

the eye blue-it ear and blue mo­ment’s nec­tar mo­ment’s pre­tend

ef­face­ment of the body can’t we but sleep in­side the ru­ina­tion of the present no Luke says from high in his chalk light­house

he’s yet to be told I won’t hear of it high up blue-it blue-it into the tch-tch and can’t but in high­est branches make out

that says back to nor­mal calls the all clear though noth­ing’s nor­mal and noth­ing will blue-it the heart beats blue-it

to chaos from here out lit­tle hop­ping grief all around catch­ing in trees such grief in trees a thick pri­vacy thick­ness into which

the re­cip­ro­cal’s thump-thump O thee of wings and smallest mus­cle give us one loud sound give us a high alarm

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