Rich Ives

Trying to Make a Pile of Ants with Invisible Tweezers

In my attic I have Wordsworth mice, but walking
backward doesn't always lead to yesterday.

What if the feeling that something's missing
is the only thing missing? Would you like me

to entertain your innocent coffee while
the Dickinson student butters a roll? She sighs
the best powdery sound of moth wings, watching

everything leaning and parting, one possible way
to be mistakenly right where she needs to be.

The soft yellow window in the abandoned house,
the angle of reception there decidedly wrong,
lets the greater feeling enter you, moving

an emptiness to a different location,
an exotic hole in its self-importance grown

bent over again with despair at the Keats table.
I find the shadow of his bread in my hands.

Disgraceful behavior awaits me.

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