G. T. Wright




Recoil

Images of disaster thread my mind:
I am pinned beneath the ice, a centipede
furs out of the faucet into the glass
I drink from in the dark. At Mesa Verde
a woman said, “Last year we went to the Grand Canyon,
we saw a young man, taking a picture, take one
step too many.” For days he haunted me:
on the way down, to become reconciled,
camera and all?
                              Or else to die of detail,
office by office.

                              Come, fabulous morning,
unravel these false images, make my life
of horn and tedium, dream me as you will.