Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Kaisa Ullsvik

lost line

clouds hang their underbelly line
cutting off the pine limbs whose arms
legs stretched up in anxious brushfire
tip-tops of mountain thumb rocks and
I want to remember this line when I arrive

black row of cows in the rich grass, yellow
that someone believed in, their raised voices
called mine but by the time splits and I reach
my head slips teardrops hung from aspen
curls, the red memories of when I tried

to can in canyon hovers missed this, replaced
them thinly trained thoughts I can’t do
being a poet requires a slim movement
of water in air, smells that remind tires grind
far alone from mistaken pain cattle rocks grass

shifts issues dusty destination, mind, everything
takes time like I don’t want to stop limbs
from shifting dynamic events that rise but
when have I ever hung my anxious brushfire with
all those tip-top pine rocks I want to be mine?


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