Do Not Drive Into Smoke (The Behavioralistic Half-Century)
       

The sun is not a sack of guts.
It is not a sack of hindrances.
It is an utterance showing hesitation,
a haw that originates from sound.
Hips have nouns as in—the roof angle,
a pointed end of obstacle.
Data from eyes, data from ears,
in the nice house the chorus killed.
As if only confession commits
as if all animals must later on.
Much of what is happening in the world
at any given moment is irrelevant
to current behavior. The nominal
confetti without color. The nominal
confession without sound. Without
brain or gem, the drab pull of pale leaves
the atmosphere to you, part of egg, part of eye.
The white laundry is not white, it is salted
ribbons that award a paper chain to ledge—look up.

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Copyright © 2013 Katy Chrisler All rights reserved
from Hayden's Ferry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission