John AshberyMorgan Craig Teicher
1 There is something wrong. Always, in fact, there is more than one thing wrong. A few minutes at a time, I try to ignore them all and focus on what it says in a book, and if Brenda don't like it, I feel bad. There are many things right, like that the baby is happily napping, and many things half-right, like that it's sunny, but in a hazy, somewhat ominous way. And if that's not a metaphor, then certainly the next topic upon which this poem will alight is: my pen is a little mouth for my hand. 2 My fingerprints are footprints for my fingers, and I know there's something to these poems, I just can't paraphrase exactly what. The need to speak, the quivering mouth, the need to speak and not be answered, not suffer another godawful perspective. The baby is crying: the present moment is within the scope of these poems, and what kind of father am I, writing through my child's tears? But Brenda is going to yoga class, and I'll catch all the tears for an hour or more. Since when am I John Ashbery?
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