Lisa Samuels
Civitas
No, don't get that – back from it, we are
too apparent each, all commas and elucting
what nature gave us, 'ick' – forestall whatever
it is you: and never mind the 'we are climbing out'
when you abide or that!, inscrutable timetable
up dearly, how it plains us for a game: one go
and you are always monument, a saken
optimist flying saturate via some
air or error-striven behemoth
hitting the cloud-belt with a prrup!,
so that we're shook and unbesaddled
with a bell or supine entity that makes
us addle-stocked and mildly whipped –
Song: body's end
Even with your headlessness
a model of infinity brushed away
the outside airs are miracle replacements
invested with the animation of false beds
a step on the stair, a door
effortless with misspent departure
The last thing left in the box I wear
with constancy, removed into pallors of looking
for resistance to air
Although you might imagine
convictions of other hands and eyes, how
they fumigate desire into flight There will be
feasts, expected ruptures of the ideal picture
after the reading of the readable scene,
there will be readings alongside those
that rip up emulations even here
The purpose looks like home, a slaking of the dirty thirst
and eyes that make illuminating glue
arrest the churches, take them through the billowing
of serviced air whose open ceilings aim toward your hands
Imagine carving circles in that air, no paths
to be accused of like creation The beauty
is that no one notices, legs and arms have all
the pleasure, wet lungs convert what hangs delight
above the lifting eyes, 'disornament' means
'a regular tearing up of the dirt of meaning'
The morning of departure
Don't mean that - mean that
it is going to Rain
Do you see? I see
no, I don't see
I hear – what do you
say to me now?
Ahora?
Dichten, condensare, the vertigo girl
erased in her own
condemnitude - no quieren decir que
decir que, arriving
to be opposite
va a llover - is it like that
at last?
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Lisa Samuels' latest collection, Paradise for Everyone, is published by Shearsman.
