Philip Wilson
August 1999 It Must Have Been
I was serrated that summer,
cutting my knee more than was strictly necessary.
I was intent on leaving for Goa
but a little bird told me not to fly.
I kept taking down the collected Hopkins
that somebody had filed under TECHNIQUE,
and thought of Sappho choking
when she saw her lover able to eat.
Piqued, the cat wiggles downtown,
slave to some Egyptian foxtrot,
and I sense the rice stick to the pan.
Your new building, though. Almost infinite.
Page(s) 45
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