Quiver and Other Poems
Quiver
after Carl Phillips
What do we do
with memory, do we burn
or do we embellish it, do we
study it like the elk
projected onto the archery
studio screen, summer’s
gelatin halo shivering
between its antlers, replayed
studio screen, summer’s
gelatin halo shivering
between its antlers, replayed
whether or not
anyone will come
to practice on or witness it: is this
what memory is:
anyone will come
to practice on or witness it: is this
what memory is:
static, unchangeable
mind we step into
and the clearing opens: again,
light rain, the scent
mind we step into
and the clearing opens: again,
light rain, the scent
of moss, puffs of steam
rising off the slick
black muzzle? Does the image,
over time, brighten
rising off the slick
black muzzle? Does the image,
over time, brighten
so feverishly inside us,
tearing through
the eye, the mind, the body: is it we
who wander out, tentative,
tearing through
the eye, the mind, the body: is it we
who wander out, tentative,
into late morning light?
What does it mean
to forget so much,
happily, greedily, if not
What does it mean
to forget so much,
happily, greedily, if not
that we are nourished most
on loss? The video
spools, the elk steps into
then out of its field,
on loss? The video
spools, the elk steps into
then out of its field,
who cares, it was dead
the second the camera
found it anyway, captured
and projected endlessly
the second the camera
found it anyway, captured
and projected endlessly
so that we might practice making it
dead again.
Is this the image to convince you
of the blinding
dead again.
Is this the image to convince you
of the blinding
limits to our world?
Is this another entry
to your newest opening?
The animal turns, the screen
Is this another entry
to your newest opening?
The animal turns, the screen
inside its body shakes:
open, bright, pocked
by tips of arrows
that never find their mark.
open, bright, pocked
by tips of arrows
that never find their mark.
