Poem for August 1

August 1, 2012 § Leave a comment

fissure plural,

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)

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