the sound was shabby with age
my family had gone home
you asked me to see the fish out of the water
and other acts of kindness
and other acts
where I saw it flapping in the wind
I threw it into air that was carrying on
when I heard changing its rhythm
where the thing stalled its dying
where nothing just died in the stale sun
in the gallery-facing windows
she was a silver fish while
all gold ones are solemn
and how the whereabouts had more sensitivity to direction than they
when each life was meaningful, in grapelike cluster
with the qualities of elapse and unsudden drift
ascent got too far connotated
to say summer is coming
to say mother is keening
with all possible others
for to bring heavier pleasure to the table
laying down the cloth
give your hands to the gods
give your hands unlike x
so many ways of not knowing what
there is not a word, knowing what words it is not, yet
selected like everything in brevity
© 2006 Julie Choffel