17 March 2006 | Vol. 6, No. 1

Turtle, Turtle, Loon

by LILY BROWN

What counted was concoction,

the able conduction of parts.

Clothes hang to match

my sand chart, the why I can

manipulate the lines.

I am five feet eight inches.

Wrong. I am five feet

six and one half inches.

Who cares what I hang from it.

All I think is watch the I

and the I takes over. I'm so sick

of branches equal limbs

equal my legs and arms,

I see a turtle, turtle—wrong. It's a loon.

Why did I guess him so hard

last Friday night?

I write V for versus.

Everything against something.

Mine encloses,

excludes that which excludes.

I give you the gift

of enclosing alteration

in my versus exclusion.

You don't know,

even though I tell you

in private conversation:

This is the gift—

I changed when

I crumpled that versus

which was not a versus after all:

shift the lexicon to the right of us.

You and I are busy locating

a fumarole for V.

Excise the move I made to you.

Turn V to vapor.