“...the pregnant fact of Isabel.”
—Herman Melville
Keep talking to
that young boy eating morning
glories crying blue
An afterlift of chlorophyll.
This orchid is enough parasite
to outdo the terrarium’s moss
Isabel removes her sweater of—
As she bares her—
& used to treat me
as her red philosophy
never did, her hand;
I help her find a drop of glass
now she is unadorned
now she the red brain
that makes the fall of birds
A rhythm is an appearance
turned into an expression
the voltage humming a hand
becoming the other
white while we arrive soft
early morning, Isabel,
thoroughly not given to thinking—
& she
a domestic zodiac, a freezing goldfinch
stop (all is leaf)
wings (all is leaf)
blossom (all is leaf)
back to its heart
But why so many
demands on pastured rhythms?
Because the world is a commitment,
a hinge between laws,
orders to remove the uneven sleep
thinking the girl in the moss
girl in the moss knows
a bird working circles & dying of noticingI lived. Don’t care what you do early
Just notice that we’re blurred,
flown into the sources of altitude bees whir;
she’s got one in her Wernicke’s
becoming a spell, Isabel,
far away Isabel, can’t help
(a blue brain, a selection of reeds
the flying afternoons ricochet between
vulnerable eel grass
that girl on the porch and her cat)
Crawls in the hymn, Isabel
All those garbled nails
I have no sense for equators
so your future
the damaged red mind collects
in wild laughter
the tangled rock
anyone’s brain in a fugitive
word for until: re-moves her.
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