by Jia Oak-Baker

An auger,
placed to the temple

of a modern-day man
and turned slowly

to the right, might
let out a penchant

for relative clauses,
a dependence on first

hand accounts, and a required
waiver for a remarkable

repast. It doesn’t make
sense all this sense-

making, in these swelling
forms that lie sometimes

in repose, sometimes
swishing by in sluice boxes,

a casual confluence of circles
and lines. Framed

in primitive clapboard without
insulation or medieval

cloth to cover its panes,
the windows turn

purple through oxidation,
and the light I think

if there is any
can’t find its way out.