Poem for August 1
August 1, 2012 § Leave a comment
fugal, your deficit and prize in another’s unfold;
or relocates “true” pain without seeking your permission —
as a thin pain in your left wrist will stubbornly remain
in its response to a threat, the fissure you imagine —
page folded backward from black type. The brain folds
a fixed gaze, may stray into fog or away from the withheld
that made me love you more. I took your hand and mis-
placed it in pursuit of “placing it where I could finally see it” —
deep separation of frontal lobe’s fugal error
always probing some other’s gaze. Music was (is) depth,
a true vein in the rock you are backing into.
Fissure equals the chasm of your mouth’s clean longitudinal
embrace, its flaw inherent in the brain’s connected folds.
Not about cure. It has the structure of overlapping duration
but the fugue, being a compositional device, is
contiguous. Stepping away from perfect pitch
pulls silence around you. You sing
“I acknowledge the plurality” — as if talking to yourself.
-Kathleen Fraser, from movable TYYPE (Nightboat, 2011)