The subject is vague. Shapes
refuse to maintain their
integrity. The eye
says: confess, deny. I
have sent thank-you notes to
dawn in my best cursive
but even the lost art
of serif is under
suspicion: who can trust
ornament? All those draped
goddesses. The sheets are
lucid like the folds in
the lobes of the left brain
(galloping, galloping
say the prepositions).
I would choose formlessness
over the scary horse
of childhood dream (passion,
risk, control, fear of the
unknown) – the unknown, said
Miss Dickinson: for this
no one thinks to thank God.