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unruly clock.

Mar. 17, 2014
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How strangely things unmoor themselves.

For instance, overhead: shadow of a bird

without a bird. As paint peels back

from the porch front, cloud-thread

raveled out against the blue. How my body

craves extinction. Yours, a tenderness.

On top of or below. As the preposition

wanders from its noun. The lip

and its restriction. You, the fricative angel

in my bed. How a bulb turns on

in the farmhouse: a private

radiance. And the body’s rapt attention,

apparent slips of tongue. Some truths

I kidnap back into the dark. My realm

of unbecoming, kingdom of shatter and thrust. Fields

in the side view plated now with water over loam.

The little clatter the mind makes, and each

peculiar crevice of a heart. Such beds of flood

and thistle: their many endings, turnings,

passings-through. Then all my slick retractions

flattering a passage through the skull. There is luck

and luck’s remission, there are freckled hands

on locks, tallow-meshes hanging in the trees. And the bees

relentless, hungry now, summer or its semblance

bent in sad arrival, creeping charlie tiny in the lawn—






Anne Shaw is the author of two poetry collections: Dido in Winter, is forthcoming from Persea Books in March 2014, and Undertow (Persea, 2007), winner of the Lexi Rudnitsky Poetry Prize. Her poems and reviews have appeared in journals including Harvard Review, Black Warrior Review, Denver Quarterly, The Los Angeles Review, The Kenyon Review, and New American Writing. She currently lives in Chicago, where she studies sculpture at the School of the Art Institute. Her work can be found online at www.anneshaw.org. On March 19th at 7pm at Woodland Pattern, Anne Shaw will be reading with Daniel Tiffany.


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