A contemporary poem about table with a temper, using a concrete image system, a pressured turn and a restrained open ending.
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The table has one short leg and a long memory. It rocks whenever we pretend to be certain. Cups tremble during family meetings. The salt walks towards the edge. At last I wedge a folded receipt beneath it— proof that even a temporary answer can keep a whole room level.
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Impossible objects become almost domestic, turning strangeness into a place the speaker can inhabit.
Attention creates an opening but cannot determine what lies beyond it.
A contemporary poem about the room won’t sit still, using a concrete image system, a pressured turn and a restrained open ending.
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