Lisa Russ Spaar
Amidst doubt’s claustral, nada stylings –
broken bathroom fan, crotch the traveling headlamps fling –
this pursed, worried pansy, the godless clock.
Forget that. To imagine what’s unreal (soul, the Other, desire, blah)
in a hook-hung, emptied robe carcass, or curtains lax & gray,
is not my passion. Instead to say
what’s all too real in terms of what’s beyond
existence!—perhaps impossible here, in words,
to tell. Still, try: inkling flare, japonica flooded & skeletal.
The dawn genitive, hived, unstoppable.