[lampshades will admit of the spectacular—are they hosts to other things?]

lampshades will admit of the spectacular—are they hosts to other things?—greedy narratives—where the poem boils over—rings on the bed, so the surrounding bets are off—influence may also be a wanderer of sorts—clandestine raveler—these mincing ways that words go in—where sea habitations co-exist—variations of the same dress gathered—we grow subtle—in the narrations of our fingers—it all goes well—enough—by being rubbed into consensus—as omissions would slide—across a pillow—or a window—where you are sitting—at the table, she was speaking about her ‘arrival’ as a sculptor—in two countries—literally two on either side—a lot of people spoken there in British English—which has replaced Afrikaans—and the roosters always crowing starting at five—when somnolence cracks—irritating the gust—it is difficult to comprehend—the arrogance in her hair—or the signal places—that imagination alters—though its glance is glass—right where looking accomplishes—automatic sweep—a given hillside twitching—out of visibility—nuances coincide, but at any moment—you may be shouldered out—never forget this—said the bragging participant—just before asking—what rhymes with death?—sayeth—what rhymes with orange?—in the airport lounge—blond hair pinned back—a pair of hurried feet—any perception would catch—and be an aphrodisiac—as intelligence also admits—of being captured—or milling about—all in a single act—but the inference is unnerved—parts company—exactly on her birthday—where I sit to where—the white roots are—qualitatively whiter—infinite in their capture—and the distance is traveled—as force of distance underwrites the letter—scrawled across the doorway to the Gecko coffee shop—cross the t and dash the i—of candles lit and needles catching . . .

—Lisa Lubasch

Lisa Lubasch is the author of To Tell the Lamp, Vicinities, and How Many More of Them Are You? She is also the translator of a forthcoming edition of Paul Éluard's A Moral Lesson.

Originally published in the summer 2005 issue of Boston Review