Jeff Encke
across the floor
giant thistles
waving in the ocean
betraying him with a vulture
a lost sight the first to see
a woman barefoot
in bed, staring at hope
—clinging to the businessman
of his dreams
he felt on his back
nobody to be seen
navel to navel his horse
came riding up
I am so much older
failed to notice the silver-shafted
knife
clawing the handle
by the pond
the message of the dolls
practicing routines
in thick swarms
although she
already settled upon her body
the orphan: the rutted potato
her village some forty-eight hours
a kind of white, like snow
by this extended absence
she laid eyes on God
went into a day and night
without waking
informed in a vision
concerned with quotas
lost to men, frequently clumsy
this cold comfort
when there is fear of tigers
always hard to accept
everything a weeping clown
he drifted toward uselessness
loss of odes
he called out to the landscape
dunes with plumes
of soft mountains
his meter too lionheaded
shapes too goatbodied
given the improbability
some strength of the water-carrier
degraded by thought
as unconsciousness arrived
his heart missed
maybe I’ll cheat you
listening to the rolling of rumors
in front of the house
a famous, unexpected night
between campfires
