print previewback C.L. O’DELL
He Thinks in Squares and Melted Grass
on “The Gate” by Hans Hofmann
I have built that before something perfect
a flower cut into paper and then while folding back
into a flower dies. I have built that before a mirror
blunted by night and the teeth that live inside it.
You said a newborn screams until it’s souled.
I have built that before a baby and a bent arm
to carry all their roots and gears and whatever part
that makes them make me think I deserve a shadow,
somehow needing their needing me more somehow
the horizon a thin gold hinge and how we’re in
this neither opened nor closed entry. 
Dear Animal
He Thinks in Squares and Melted Grass
Heaven