By Ann Lauterbach, from a manuscript in progress. Lauterbach has published nine volumes of poetry, including, most recently, Under the Sign (2013).
An impermeable layer gardens
the sleuth patch, guarded and sworn
into rescue, or mission. The quaint
forsaking its mild page, unfaithful as ever.
I’m dressed in clouds and they
are smirking at the edge
of late-age homilies, and the poor star
unable to grant its mania to the end of day.
Some patches of seared light, some
plain domestic blues.
There is a stray sense to the air, wind
announcing the eternal
as through an open window, a sister’s face.
Things being fetched from afar, from the
that gathers any single
into any amount; piles of them, unanchored,
blown every which way.