Forgetting Form
by Anthony Robinson
More perfect than you, this one,
having no ladder to climb,
lacking the need to ascend-
but like you, full of a color like water,
the unassuming in-gathering
of what seem impressions, tracings
on onion-skin paper, an unknown
animal's clawmarks left
on the upholstery, the way the day
behind the glass looks slightly
different, more abundant
than the day outside--
She calls herself a perfectionist,
a badge that orders more
than shapes or reveals
the smooth skin and mathematical
mind are no match, really,
for the cloudburst, for what seems
clean: two days, white smocks,
the open mouth, the knowledge
that philosophy offers no consolation.
Anthony Robinson writes: "I am a graduate student in English Literature at the University of Oregon,
where I also teach freshman composition and am an associate editor on the
staff of the Northwest Review. My work has been widely published on the web
and in small print journals, most recently Samsara Quarterly, Gumball
Poetry, Caffeine Destiny, Able Muse, and EM Literary."
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