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TWO POEMS



POSING FOR FRANCESCA WOODMAN (I)

Like victoriana-mansions in emptying fields : like this room is a body left to light

its way through a house : left to rot : the wallpaper developing us

as stop-motion : as clattering through space : not stars so much as dark-

stockings-dark : a velvet-stuffed mouth. Or how to drape our lack

: reflection. Above the mirror she & I are not : for disappearing. Above the mirror :

the corners of an unzipped dress : swallowed by the swallowed

overlap of light : the shutter biting down on its own open hand : a moment gloved

on film : unto heirloom. The sound of a heavy dress dragging :

particular. So particular : we are continuous : & appearing. Not at all

like a mirror : see-through & astoundingly : bloomcamouflaged. Not at all

unhusked : as body : as lightseep : as grief. The house left to dark

in its constricted frame.



WALDEINSAMKEIT

My bared, my grief in the teeth. I turn on
every light behind you, our doubled face.

I am feeling the feeling of running
into myself alone in the woods. I call out:
encountering. What is there to do? Layer the self in salt

or the shorn. Cure this animal-head, its heavy antlers-
price into prayer & pillar. Turn myself

back out—: my hands the idea of my hands,
like taxidermied-desire, stuffed over the fawning
mineral-lick of my mouth.