Release Me from the Paying Passenger
There is nothing to really note in this world
you might say. But since crescent moons
frame brittle grass all over the world,
I won’t stop with this philosophy. I won
the argument yesterday when we were nearby
the park and the day before when you ran me over.
I have run away from you–with accidental
fortune in hands–not all of your bank statements.
But I am not a Calvinist in the true sense–I only
lowered it to ahistorical terms. I believe in principles–
prophetic principles. You say marred and I say martyr.
I drink two liters; you don’t drink anything.
There are pests roaming the floorboards.
There are animals all around us now.
Save the foolhardy measure for your male companions.
They desire this more readily–
more enigma, shall we say, to entertain them–
barren matadors or empathetics.
I need neither kind of grand marnier nor vodka
to wash my throat or collapse my senses to tiny
careless obliterations. The way this ended shut you out,
so drop the lensatic compass and lavish gift, and please, run.
Prageeta Sharma from the Boston Review
by Mei-mei Berssenbrugge
I did not know beforehand what would count for me as a new color. Its beauty is an analysis
of things I believe in or experience, but seems to alter events very little. The significance of a bird
flying out of grapes in a store relates to the beauty of the color of the translucency of grapes.
There is a space among some objects on a table that reminded her of a person, the way the bird reminded her,
a sense of the ideal of the space she would be able to see. Beauty can look like this around objects.
A plastic bag on a bush, moving slightly, makes an alcove, a glove or mist, holding the hill.
Time can look like this. The plane of yourself separates from the plane of spaces between objects,
an ordered succession a person apprehends, in order to be reminded.
Courtesy of University of California Press.