Carole Glasser Langille
This Far
Out to retrieve what I’d hidden,
fields were language, with their coarse
grass, their syllables of wind, rescinding
miss from misunderstanding, upstart
from up starting. Hope yeasted in me
and kept rising. In pity, it told me,
and thirst you will wander
from noise to silence to words and words
are a moonless night. And language wears pants
too short. And explanation is rush hour’s
busy city. Yes
is the answer to the question: Is there ever a clearing
in which every blessing
is brought to table? There is such a thing
as the very least. Oh sunless centre.
Oh near miraculous. Oh missing answer.
Page(s) 193
magazine list
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- Staple
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- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
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