Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Linnea Ogden


Another meeting I pay rent for.
I come in and wait as something withdraws from me.

I approximate a familiar, half-remembered recipe. Upstairs
a gasoline smell enters the tube piping insulation in

from the truck outside. I sit in the corner with no enthusiasm
about the corner. My appointment has been rescheduled.

A still flat window whose light changes constantly.
I print maps. I want to be asked about my car and the bird

I saw from it. Rustling the leaves of my actual house.

Linnea Ogden is a poet and teacher living in San Francisco. She's an assistant editor at Lost Roads press; her work has appeared in typo, 1913: a journal of forms, Conduit, and others.