Dissonan e

Wrought iron twisted in knots, tree limbs reaching, snapping, vines weaving—clever seamstress. Machinery working through the rot, and so I see in human thought in human action in human sayings in humans lost. I see, because I follow the same flow, cut the same corners, sway in the same alley, cuss like the sailors who sink and swim without ever touching the water. But do not look to me, for I do not look to you. And do not look to the stars, or to the ocean deep, or to the land afar. For no one—nothing—nowhere can unravel your mess, can understand your canvas. We only glance, cockeyed, forcing puzzle pieces into the wrong puzzle while you sit waiting, waiting until that observer sits and says, It will be all right: start with the corners and work toward the center. Poetry 43