after Michael Earl Craig<\/em><\/p>\nIt occurs to me I am like a houseplant. I turn a little in my chair
\nto look out a different window. A rabbit has stepped out from
\nbehind a shrub; the rabbit presents himself to me. They say poetry <\/p>\n
is dead. Or that when a hand reaches into the frame we get the sense
\nof someone in the act as if on a video monitor. \u201cIt is a terrifying time
\nto be a cigar,\u201d I say. \u201cShut up and fuck me,\u201d she says. She keeps <\/p>\n
a friendly look on her face. Her mouth as she spoke, so large and
\npink and promiscuous. I have just very carefully cut the heartless bitch.
\nShe is a flash of light on the water. We have definitely seen something. <\/p>\n
It gives this poem its poise and a marketable feeling comes over us,
\nlike limes its weight is satisfying. I\u2019m not even saying this is a poem.
\nWhen I come upon you I grope you where the camera moves <\/p>\n
in close into and through every bedroom. In the next room I stood
\nvery close to a mirror \u2014 you are some kind of pathetic impostor.<\/em> <\/p>\n<\/p>\n
The Tablecloth Trick<\/h4>\n
I give myself some time, four minutes say,
\nto chew over what I\u2019ve proposed to do. <\/p>\n
(Perhaps you see how this will play out…)<\/em><\/p>\nPacing slowly around the busy table, stopping here
\nand here, to place a piece of cutlery at a certain angle,
\nas if hoping to fool myself into thinking: This will help! <\/p>\n
\u201cThe turkey is almost ready,\u201d says my girlfriend\u2019s mother,
\nreturning from her kitchen with a bowl of steaming broccoli. <\/p>\n
I feel the cotton collapse like dead hummingbirds
\nbetween my fingers and thumbs as I make a mental note
\nto comment on how beautifully ironed it is, was. <\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
What Was That You Tried To Say<\/h4>\n
It comes knocking like a salesman travelling door-to-door,
\npeddling its humorous paraphernalia: Ah, here! See these
\nextra-long vampiric fangs, think how funny you\u2019ll appear!<\/em> <\/p>\nIt comes knocking even though it saw you see it coming
\nfrom a house down the street as you sat on your porch
\neating sliced peach. That dazzling sun. This plastic taste. <\/p>\n
What was that you tried to say?<\/em> asks everyone you meet:
\nyour words scurrying away like too many cockroaches
\nin a room that\u2019s just been opened; the light switched on. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"I Have To Confess That Only Sometimes Am I With You after Michael Earl Craig It occurs to me I am like a houseplant. I turn a little in my chair to look out a different window. A rabbit has stepped out from behind a shrub; the rabbit presents himself to me. They say poetry […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":217,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[346,349],"tags":[350],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n
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