One Name Would Be Enough to Exorcise This Astonishment
by Kristi Maxwell

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The year melting performed ache’s snow version followed, serendipitously, our toast: That sadness will not star in every wet episode of the head! Sold on rapture, we named two pups “blessing” and “blessing” and called them both to us and hid our surprise at their coming.

Once more the press is eluded through stowing. Stowed in the carcass of a colt. Draw the curtains, they ask, and we assess our needles and nod.

For the tract built into the abstract, what might be excrement to fill it the way a white screen set in the amphitheater’s jaw? A white screen filled with dresses the plot tends.

We said want which minted need. Said sated and wedded it. Still, we say desire is a mean need and mean a yes welded to so. Our jar reeks of the manicured field.

It took mining the hog’s fatty jewels—gristly shinys—to learn skin’s function as frame. Later, the unction of frames: if empty, deliberately, empty decks the eye with awe. Should the eye still stand. Oh that our eyes be rigged that emptiness would not best us based on display.

We stick to things we are quick to. The field’s dialogue goes like this: trough, trough. And, yes, the answers in the shape of cows, in the shape of hogs to which we cluck sweetly.

How well we know the pail came down to inventing water. And, yet, our hands.

For the sensibility the sprinkler brings, should we reconsider? Were not an apostrophe the sole bridle we’d found. Let’s add this to the gold-leafed pronunciation key of our defeats. Beside “Wheat fields say nothing. Which is sad.”

It was not a just minutiae that has paused us.