A shadowy arrowed so-many-foot canyon. Why I always write canyon. Whether there is a subject. Which is thirteen feet, six inches. What to think about next. A pair of electric devices clipped to the page. Measure this line. Begins at a photo. Red arrow (large), yellow sound below the hind ends of numbers of minutes. These are aspects. Musical. I can't see the front of the subject. It says PITTSBURGH GOES GREEN and it spreads. Along brick-colored brick. A subject ten hours away, dressed in yellow and red. Framed by wire and the dogged ditch of grass. I thought grass was like air but with many tiny canyons. All along this was wrong. Many wheels turn at this moment: I can never see all of them at once, and then a pole leans. And it is very eye-catching when the split canyons two reliably large white items reflectively, with shadows. Never without a knife. And locked. Rivets in these lines. An arrangement of stone and being boarded-up. Compositionally this is diagonal so that ivy never tears at the cornice in the lifespan of the sign, NORTH ROBINSON. A few things are missing. I suppose I had chosen this. What breaks into song, what breaks into flowerbox. A tradition of naming poems "Looking at photos of ----------." A tradition of naming anonymous painters after their only known painting: The Master of ----------. Lines of precedent falling onto pavement, dressed, selected, pinned-down or painted. Bricks painted blue. In some ways, the street.
Erika Howsare Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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