I shredded an entire book of Sharon Olds poems, cut them out
and strung them from the ceiling with strands of yarn and tape.
Every time the wind sweeps through they flutter
weightlessly, not at all like matter.
Their chimes shimmer like lights on ears, oxygenate the house like the wave of a hand. These are poems that move out of lived-in spaces. Their bodies fly up in the essential aloneness of poems that connect, fleshy poems stayed by flimsy threads, the muscularity of poems that open, intrinsically, to a comedy of days and the incommunicable history of a life sung in jagged Mahlerian liber, this airy, tangled bivouac, tossed leaves encamped beneath the
momentary
elusive
harmonic
bridge of a line drawn, of bodies inside bodies, until they grow so heavy with the other that they threaten to pull the ceiling down.
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