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.
….
