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Barbwire fence extending field to thicket
From which the flushed birds shed icy shells.
That I should climb each tree before I torch it.
Tongue and bone
Abandon me for light resisting alignment.
If this is lament, drown it behind the dam made with leaves
By the careful feet that mudded them there, severed
And soldered to the barn-boards—sun-bleached and split—
This hour into halves stacked in chords.
The fence through which wind blows snow enough
To bury it—would that I envisage things real
Only after I say them so—
Against the knife’s tip slip its pale skin; weight of ash
Essential to welcome.
As I dress the bird, its feathers scatter. Ecdysis
Or wind, in which sound begets particulates of sound
I have not yet lit to watch the flare and flare.
Rob Schlegel’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Colorado Review, Handsome, Octopus, Pleiades, Subtropics, and Volt. He curates the New Lakes Reading and Performance Series.
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Poetry
in your carpeted office you lay my life down / and say open up to that small room in my sternum.
In his new book, the former Fed chair cuts through economic orthodoxy on central banking. But he fails to reckon deeply with its political consequences.
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