THE MODEL HAND
The somewhat off-sized illuminated “I” pedals its gold kerns at the edge of the (unknown?) text, which gives if you will from its tweediness to retiform wings of a dragonfly tipped in below stiff-haired, protracted calamine blue and sectored hemimorphite pilaster to— the wings in congress— arcs of the common pear leaf and half-pried bud of the wastrel carnation. It was opposed to the tight blossom end that the stem apparently snaked to the woodier stem, it has been my misfortune— the sheltered things so supernaturally in confidence with what I was trying to pay attention to—
In the photosensitive ground my vision sleeps, stalked in love and dread, in the metaphorical fund we would be chemically composed in, a simple order scanning shoots moving whiplike overhead, trip-wire threads sprung from the least constant, but to fix the sliding sense, cluster-feeding subjects, things we do on the retinal trap, still we do them darker for the fovea mills inside its nest, small harlequin shark the eye bequeaths somehow stranger to itself astride the compassing mouth, tensile glues, the mailed shimmed enameling traveling to snap the snap-strike future of its view, what I feared, tinged, dissolved.
The double peony doubling still its still surround the honeysuckle’s “rococo sinuosities” doing their dippings into shades a close rejoinder to backward tugs in petit-point sheaths all the false conductions wild importations going on in deep shade under the flailed honeysuckle boring through the loose slats sounds like a drone in phased containments the artless interest solitary traced you could say artlessly of an “art” that holds in place hairstreak on sheer tusk of mauve delphinium artless brute appointment.
Emily Wilson is the author of two poetry collections, The Keep (2001) and Micrographia (2009). She lives with her husband and two sons in Iowa City, Iowa.