XI
Emily Dickinson
Wait awhile, E., are her
poems comic? white and purple, E.?
Take one word in one poem—take “hazel”
Franklin
in no. 739, “hazel” witnesses,
nor “blue” would have done, nor “brown” and it is shocking
when it comes, it is an affront, a heavenly
affront, to speak of eyes like that, or take
no. 903
the lark, and cut him open to find his song,
that’s the literal option, sorting through the
guts, or call it the stubborn, a clown say
cutting open a crow and looking up at
the bleachers and scratching his head with a crimson knife,
rubber, of course, and asking for help, maybe finally
Moses
playing a tune on his baby fiddle, then M.
God, Abraham
talking to G., or A. to G., a worm
and a robin, talking in Worm, of course, “oh, robin,
how could I look at your beak and live?” how you do
shake the ground with wonder, but I. is furious
at his own thoughts for he is not that which eats him
and G. is not that which eats the eater, nor will he
degrade himself that way.
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