Four Way Books
See Through
by Frances Richard

ISBN: 1-884800-48-3
paper, 87 pages, $14.95





I looked you up in the shallow water dictionary. It said
black and blue, said
        awkward scar, forget-me-not

noli me tangere
        kind of thing.

Foam slaps the oar-locks. Spume drowns. A stained safety
orange, salt-stiffened gloves for example, or starting
the car with a screwdriver fixed in ignition. That can be yours; I'll

        use episode, as
when the girl enters the fête in her novel, in muslin, her premodern
shift. Match-head flame in the orchid, core roseate

        with big voltage. Urge—further it. We feel shy,
as if breathless were cozy. Now this alcohol
sting of the mind, I can't read, as on marshland the windows

        are oozing, not solid but slow-moving
gel. Did you know glass is permanent liquid? So stand here
a temblor, see outer: quilts, pots, dust, excitement. And inner:

snow. It
        depends. Parts bulbed and fructified, furred
bow in rattling orchestra.
        A soughing thing fattened

and bullied by boring wind. Want that, want laugh and
        tough match-head
burns in the orchard, stripped edges. Soothe, you flare.