Gertrude Stein, image by Irene Koronas
After Stein
Guitar
saga, you look, cauldron eye.
Then
and never. The impossible construction
of
exchange. Angry gondolier,
sighing
like the sea, or fast trucking
of
thorax, wet sea-foam of voice.
Expletive.
Logic illiterate, southern bound
of
heart-want. Dead fish sizzle
of
slow morning. Sit or pen-stroke,
legs
sinewy like ink-stain.
I
wanted you like the impact of a skull.
Bash
bash or impervious brain bash.
Pink
like cheek of infant death or February
rusted
wheelbarrow. Ambitious garden.
Long
long awaited or nothing passes.
No
ants no wasps transpiration of lisp.
Never
was but now. I am talking in distances.
The
world is a static image
asymmetry
of shape and tawny.
Blue
like dead mind mind in tranquil fear.
Fear
of nothing quelling sun on flat white
while
too much writing
about
the scales of monsters. It was
touching
her shoulder. Man not man.
Idea
or whisper your love bust.
It
wouldn’t not if me but I would
bird
twitch of self, clatter of soul.
Your
interesting motion
or
gesture mouth rain in ancient cave.
I
dreamt that I dreamt that
I
smelt the evergreens. Never did see them
as
ambulatory mass. Doll breath.
See
was giggle or girl
and
there was a barring. Good good book
disarray
of alphabet but walk on
but
don’t walk away. Come back
wrangle
of wire, womb-spawn.
—Emily
Vogel
