String Theory
Blades turning over in the eld, humming
for all that becomes lost, but still is. On the last
for all that becomes lost, but still is. On the last
day of a borrowed year, I watch a dog
refusing to play fetch here, bleating across grass, snapping
refusing to play fetch here, bleating across grass, snapping
at nothing at all. I promise to start opening myself like a door or a wound, and the cut becomes something
I can walk through, into Silver Lake, Washington
where my father’s telephones always escaped over the lip
where my father’s telephones always escaped over the lip
of his boat. A machine in his hand plays birdcalls and bullfrogs. Imitating sh, my family twists
around and around, disappearing turned steel
down the wet line of a bad memory. Imagine
down the wet line of a bad memory. Imagine
what moves through us without asking, tacitly engaging the blotted curse of another year, the bend in a knife wasted
gutting rocks. When St. Helens erupts, it clays the bottom of a lake. It kills a man with no face. You can buy ash in plastic jars
as novel as shark teeth. I promise to start opening myself like a door and a pyroclastic display sizzles from the split lining
sending the world through its own tear. A rainbow trout struggles through the ventricle heart. A father throws
a daughter over starboard by her ankles. Water swallows
fabric into a dark wish, like a sick dog desperate, eating grass.
fabric into a dark wish, like a sick dog desperate, eating grass.