The American Poetry Review

THREE TRIPTYCHS

I Gave Birth

Woke to the “mean
error,” of birds squawking
inside the blue-greyblack
polyphonies of what
happens when we lose
the terminology
to determine how bad
things really are. Was
there no way to puncture
the agonizing film
that kept us all corralled
here? I looked through
the window—bewildering
axiom, condition,
assumption—I looked
at the dwarf orange
tree, fruiting
sour fruit incessantly.

In Another

Suppose it is possibleto be in three statesof errorat once and in each placeto think three thingsand in eachthing toa different version ofthe salted wind as youare walkingalong the high sea cliff.Take, for example, apricotswhich have been geneticallybredto amplify the length oftime their fragrance staysin the crisp airof the cadaverous supermarket,just long enough toplace themin your cart and thinkto yourself

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