Clear As

The Iowa Review - - MARY QUADE -

I can see right through this day— from teacup to cock­tail—each minute un­smudged by mys­tery. It’s ob­vi­ous, isn’t it? Noon-il­lu­mi­nated, bright as be­lief. If I stare at clar­ity long enough, I see spots. Ap­par­ently, what’s limpid lies. The sky slung blue over the grass (each blade) dis­guises the uni­verse—the gal­ax­ies of stars, who by night, spit-shined, trick us with dead light. But we ex­pect to be fooled by moon; that’s our right­ful ex­cuse, our pass for wicked­ness. Day, how­ever, plane of good work and duty— alert—hides worse: hubris of cer­tainty, lu­cid in­sight—that ob­scene, pen­e­trat­ing curse.

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