It touches its own body to measure
ambiguity.
Where do I go,
asks the hand of the touch:
gas, liquid,
solid.
I am not who I
am.
What was once blue, was green, white,
black, translucent.
And is so again.
Water mates with itself, a lover falling
hard through
soft,
betraying through trustworthy,
torrent through
opacity.
All that we knew
of each other in our form,
where do I go,
blunt and insinuating.
The touch paired
with itself. A humid air.
The point of contact as it bathes and
thirsts.
A hand on a real body, its mutable fact.
On Water (from Elizabeth to Jenny)Elizabeth Robinson’s must recent books are the hybrid essay On Ghosts and the poetry collections Counterpart and Blue Heron. Robinson is a co-editor of Instance Press and the literary periodical pallaksch.pallaksch.
by Elizabeth Robinson
above/ground press broadside #326
No comments:
Post a Comment