Elaine Bleakney
I was fixed in him; glass would not stream from itself.
I took the window down; the woods now
other woods surrounding. I took myself to a class on Berry Street.
The place for him inarticulate. Tandem, the teacher took me along the metal
rod to river
in glass, the oven. She fished; she knew how much time; I followed.
Swooning the molten glass out high on the rod.
Wrists, wrists, wrists (she said) rolling the rod across my lap.
Someone else kissed, someone else lodged it.
I rowed in a scarred wooden cup.
