Lauren Camp
Every Misstep. Another first time, like the rest, and I bend
to tie his rotten laces. The soft ribbon fraught
without reason. Clean socks, I instruct, though he wants them
reeking of the week. Yellowed
toes, all that
moisture, most likely thriving
fungal infection. I have already started to fix an expression. He justifies
his hollowed purpose, caresses
the cotton weave. People stroll past
with the intensity
of sweat. In the beginning all I wanted was to seize
my father’s ripening—clean it.
Jays bang the window. His face
can’t do more than go on unknown I am still
the same girl who stayed resolute at the throne
of his dank defenses Complained
his oppositional triumphs He keeps repeating
his need as anything that can be worn The future
closes my eyes The socks are
fine There is no end to agreement
Protection
A meditation on Agnes Martin
On the path, flexible droplets
rib moss and branches,
clutch any libation.
This then is what I fix to, this hillside.
My goal is to dress
each day with the inside
of hours and the next shallow
moment—
her thin paper edged with lack and brink,
the shaky lead coming along
without argument
every direction. I feel that to be quiet
is to hear the size
of a conversation between lazy grasses—: I keep looking
at a chair in the meadow and now
what I’ve learned is the view
drains back to featureless
and I am calm
as she’d ever manage to be.
What if my work is to let
the mind take to the winnow
and linger? Squirrels zipper
to upper branches. I notice the sky to be
edgeless. This is all so simple,
my eye to the coffee cup
on the counter
that holds a slight daisy
turning outward.