I’m made unbidden    a present of not
“supersonic”    as I texted Cox    though if I apply
to my cheek    its soft bristle brush
its bristles in circles around    circles    if I circle
the face    if I endeavor to massage    transparent its meadow
decorous its purely    decorative meadow
extract yellow-gold budded bouquets of oil
and instructions    also music   play through
the scouring brush    head what
should I call these concentric buffs    that buffer
into play “Party for One”    but super
-fluous    the body forgotten again    this device
called “clari-    sonic”    echolocative promise    a clearance
this living face    won’t get    eventuality yet    like    the cloud
catching    no light in its passage    to dirt    the cloud
wherein repeat selfies hover    undealt-with
above    catching no dust    immaterial at $2.99
a month    a small fund seeding    the community-
supported server farm    atop thigh bones
 
The screen crisscrosses out   a spire of rainbow
cast through the window    the outlines
notice the waters rise    the rain gone
the reflective surface    need not pause—    a nimbus
of images singing    O of me    have I tried
to withhold judgement    re: beauty    a truer
form of discernment    divests from the reckless
holdings on of a past    where I was severally
clocked in the room glassed    at the bronze
bas-relief of three goddesses    before Paris    laughing
when I could not distinguish    between the three
laughing          one of a trio    of jokes
the first goes    Renoir didn’t either    another whether
or not    trained on ground    you can distinguish
between clouds    all the same those gods
are asking that you    select from   among
power conquest love    you decide
on love    you want to call it         love
turns out it’s the opening    of another front
 
For your options     try to tell them apart
try to tell which one you are
or take cover                   in presentiment
clear the future    of heaven is       immaterial
as ever caught up in    the question    of vantage &
whether you are    whether you aren’t
the future of heaven    though without ground
would like to get out    of the clouds    to fulfill
some form    to abandon    try to    find in this
a trinity    let clarisonic’s virtue    the cloud
stand in for a clear sound    say beauty clouds
the devices    the cloud-devised
beauty    or Beauty devising the cloud    in me
a cover    a three-to-one    I flow through
the connection between    the face circling
the clearing    total occluding
the dissipate nimbus    the sound of
which surfacing
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ALYSSA PERRY’s recent writing appears in Annulet: A Journal of Poetics, The Canary, Denver Quarterly, and Poetry Northwest. She is the assistant editor at Rescue Press and teaches creative writing in Cleveland, Ohio.