Monday, May 17, 2010

Jacqueline Waters


a plugged-in glow globe throwing

              thumbprints of land, islets of the outer Pacific

              over snow

              stuffing up gaps

              in the hospital hot/cool unit.

no sleep at first, dream

about a patch of bog

paved over by the wide margin

Thoreau loves to his life:

“I love a wide margin to my life” – Thoreau.

it was lovely to say

                        that it was raining

             and to mean

                        that part of you was low: half

                        was suspecting yourself

                        on to something: the rest

             fell from following

             the first half’s lead:

             opening a book on the bar

             in front of each empty chair:

             setting yourself

             at the bar’s far end

             till night, your own cloud of it

                         ran right to the orbs of your eyes.

             No emotion is pleasing!

             Each must be rejected

             replaced by an opposite

             rejected and replaced by yet another

             vast strain of undifferentiated sentiment

             till longing collapses

as its silvered edges

             ebb themselves equal, eager

             to stand there lapsed

                        by the great lapses

                        you find in your way

                        until you find your way

             or till you find your ways

             have rearranged you slightly

                        as a mirror rearranges slightly

                        what has mostly been lived

                        by sight.

Jacqueline Waters is the author of a book, A Minute without Danger (Adventures in Poetry), and a chapbook, The Garden of Eden a College (A Rest Press). A new book will be published by Ugly Duckling Presse in 2011. She lives in San Francisco and is an editor of The Physiocrats, a pamphlet press.