Sarah Gridley
 
 

 

          WANTING THE TEN-FINGERED GRASP OF THINGS
 

In the haptic scripture, all cups are running over.  To one portion

of the curve where quartz is ground, blue adds fable to fable.

The ledger groans.  To think what blood

cannot accommodate.  Or to praise

what it can.  What can be hoped to balance where

the numbers hunch to life?  The ledger spills.  Sun re-strings

its gold to eye.  Green begins

its supplication.  In absurd attachment

to a known convexity, the outstretched body

spools the weight.  To subtract its spine from the gulling

shadows, sleep unfits the column.

 

If elsewhere you loved the penciled figures moving

consummately toward horizon, you must promise here

to yield up counting.  In the drinking place

where nothing listens. And the supplicant hand

is fixed in time.  In time

with the weather:  the slack and tautness

of the water, the stashed durations

between what is.

Copyright 2003 Sarah Gridley.  All Rights Reserved.

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