(to S)
Morgan Bach
They’re a different kind of foreign to me
as they were to you. Similar, but small
differences, like a bucket in the sink –
not enough to bail out of the habit of stating
things without hesitancy. Rolling vowels
like a colt on spring grass. Such confidence
in empire. Where you’re stuck now
well above the flood, a whirling
washing line like I’d find at home
is just over the fence in your line of sight
(it’s not – it’s the sky) and a dog
that won’t stop barking. Is it lazy to say
no one can work out what it’s trying
to convey, how there is humour
in its aggression. I’ll say it anyway.
