Love, Delight, and Alarm [excerpt]
by Karen WeiserThen the treehouse burned. And continued
unobliterable as the sea
to burn. The photo of it burning
hangs on its wall, taken from high up,
but not that high. The firemen
approach cautiously, minus the
four-part regimented solace, that
would repeat. If the act of
painting is Drawing the boundaries
of a fire, can I disappear
into the initial combustion? If the
act of painting stops time or at
least its cornet of fronted tremendous,
I could disappear into the Encyclopedia
of Animal Life as the cherub's sleepiest
wet tusk. I could start with a dexterous
periscope and end by feeling
time, the largest block of it
I can conceive collectively
Smell I the flowers, or thee?
See I lakes, or eyes?