Lisa Samuels


    No, don't get that – back from it, we are
    too apparent each, all commas and elucting
    what nature gave us, 'ick' – forestall whatever
    it is you: and never mind the 'we are climbing out'
    when you abide or that!, inscrutable timetable
    up dearly, how it plains us for a game: one go
    and you are always monument, a saken
    optimist flying saturate via some
    air or error-striven behemoth
    hitting the cloud-belt with a prrup!,
    so that we're shook and unbesaddled
    with a bell or supine entity that makes
    us addle-stocked and mildly whipped –

    Song: body's end

    Even with your headlessness
    a model of infinity brushed away

    the outside airs are miracle replacements
    invested with the animation of false beds

    a step on the stair, a door
    effortless with misspent departure

    The last thing left in the box I wear
    with constancy, removed into pallors of looking
    for resistance to air
                                Although you might imagine

    convictions of other hands and eyes, how
    they fumigate desire into flight   There will be
               feasts, expected ruptures of the ideal picture

                    after the reading of the readable scene,
                         there will be readings alongside those
                  that rip up emulations even here

         The purpose looks like home, a slaking of the dirty thirst
           and eyes that make illuminating glue

      arrest the churches, take them through the billowing
       of serviced air whose open ceilings aim toward your hands

    Imagine carving circles in that air, no paths
    to be accused of like creation     The beauty

    is that no one notices, legs and arms have all
    the pleasure, wet lungs convert what hangs delight

    above the lifting eyes, 'disornament' means
    'a regular tearing up of the dirt of meaning'

    The morning of departure

    Don't mean that - mean that

    it is going to Rain

    Do you see? I see

    no, I don't see

    I hear – what do you

    say to me now?


    Dichten, condensare, the vertigo girl

    erased in her own

    condemnitude - no quieren decir que

    decir que, arriving

    to be opposite

    va a llover - is it like that

    at last?

Lisa Samuels' latest collection, Paradise for Everyone, is published by Shearsman.

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