Justin Hare
ff white chalk after
Magical Realism
Even Naiads do laundry, scrubbing
their gossamer gowns with shells.
Wood Nymphs shop for groceries,
hustling to make their appointments.
The Soul of an Old Oak keeps
a calendar—new kitten each month.
I as well do all these things, hoping
to find in them some wonder.
Magical Realism
Even Naiads do laundry, scrubbing
their gossamer gowns with shells.
Wood Nymphs shop for groceries,
hustling to make their appointments.
The Soul of an Old Oak keeps
a calendar—new kitten each month.
I as well do all these things, hoping
to find in them some wonder.
Synecdoche
I like the way you wrap both arms around
my arm, as if it were a whole torso,
lying in bed at night. I won’t pretend
that touching skin-to-skin makes easier
my sleep (I prefer, correspondingly,
to keep one naked leg clear of the quilt
until I’m out), but I will gladly give--
again, again, again—that single arm
for you to hold and heat; consider it
synecdoche for all the rest of me.
On Chaos Theory, “Canon Events,” and the Contingency of Being
Were a spent pen
or rubber band removed
from a long forgotten drawer;
were a tardigrade expelled to space
or swept along the floor--
out of place, out of time;
were I to fail to rhyme this line:
would everything dissolve?
What and where’s the center
about which all revolves?