28 December 2007 | Vol. 7, No. 4

Appendix:           the           Blind (         Specimen   )

by JOSHUA POTEAT

There is

    rain

                      from

    light                      .

                                            —

There is

                                                     the lumberman

                                                                        and

                                                                                the Elm

          stack'd

    distant

through the

                            Night

                                      .

                                            —

The city's

                                            sky,

Like           peasants'

                                 muddy

                  ribs

                           ,

         reveals

    the

                             knife's

                          clavicle

     the                          floor

                        hollowed-out

                              for         cholera

                                            —

       give                      these           blossoms

one season

of	bloodroot,

        of fear,     of

                            the heart's

                  cloth                    .

                                            —

                                                   light

    whores

                                        the slaughterhouse

        for

                                       dusk        ,

                              and

the                       night

                                                   thinks           rain

          is

                                               disembodied

       silence                             of the

                  leaves

                                           The                    creek

                            sockets

                                   these          Days to the

black-birds                     and little                     strange and beautiful                     over

cedars,                 all        the

                                                                  morning

                                                                  .

                                            —

                                        here

              in

the

                                   early

           blundering

          world,

   winter

    has

                                      magnolias

              and

              nothing else