Primordial Life

by SARAH V. SCHWEIG

 

 

The black cat across the wood floor stretched
into a crescent. The floor’s patterns depended on where
each trunk had been amended. The process lent credence to the invention.


Collapse lent credence to materials. Silver, copper.
Don’t mistake the personal for lumber or a lumberyard in winter.
Personal Expression is no longer important. 


The books I have not yet balanced. 
The process is the glitter of circles scattered
across the dark floor of a numbered room wide open.


It seemed the truest thing. Loneliness. I worked hard
to own it. The airport, a nice touch. The airport was the constant
breeze from which I—daughter of some scholar—laughed.