Sense of Things
Patty Seyburn
Loose air ellipses from the open fist.
Wind chimes tuned to Chicago blues'
five notes refuse
to resolve a chord due to brackish winds,
breeze's beck, the ocean sullen
with white spume.
Room rife with ambivalence the moment
can't shake. Will nothing happen? Things
are happening right
here. Here, take this tangerine, cleave it
into twelve tribes; if you had picked
a mango it would be
all yours and there would be no discord,
no dross. No way to make sense of things
that have so little.
Distress waits in the wings, paints a scrim,
bastes a hem, wants the ingenue to break
her neck. The air could
be eaten with a pudding spoon. Nothing
seems right. ("On." "Accurate." "Best.")
Be thankful--you have that.
Nature hates a vacuum, just ask and
you'll conceive. How can you even think
of raising an idea
in this neighborhood, with all these
sinister trees and cul-de-sacs? The world
is a poor fit. All the tailors
on Carnaby Street, Rue St. Faubourg
and Seventh Avenue can't do anything.
You'll have to grow into it.
Tables of Content
Seventeen (Fall 2003)
Sixteen (Spring 2003)
Fifteen (Fall 2002) Fourteen (Spring 2002)
Thirteen
(Fall 2001) Twelve (Spring 2001)
Eleven (Fall 2000)
Ten (Spring 2000)
Nine (Fall 1999) Eight (Spring 1999)
Seven, (Fall 1998) Six, (Spring 1998)
Five (Fall 1997) Four (Winter/Spring 1997)
Three (Summer/Fall 1996) Two (Winter 1996)