Spring 2004 • Vol. XXVI No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 2004 |

Like Stitches Where the Moths Have Made an Opening

Star-in-the-hand   Cupped fire   Fist, luminous.       What keeps staying lost is not, anymore, the thing itself, but the definition it once provided,           as history does to what occurs—to what has not, yet.                  Leafe-gold, what is blown—is blowable—away.                 God enters me as if from behind; he shakes, inside me. I want what you want, he says. I say Why regard what I can't choose? To be anchorless,                     but not unanchored: To have failed means, at worst, once we flourished, that's right, isn't it?             Windfall whose imperfections fade in a shabby harvest, the body—as again from mistakes all the same enjoyed—lifts, staggers, like light       off spokes of a wheel set spinning,                             as the wheel slows down: speed of legend, of the myth that follows, of the l

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Carl Phillips
Carl Phillips is the author of thirteen books of poems, most recently Reconnaissance (FSG, 2015). He teaches at Washington University in St. Louis.

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