By John Johnson
We spent the morning in a flooded field, out among decoys, the light
catching us strangely. From the little shadow beneath our umbrella
we could see every animal endowed with spirit. There were
monasteries in the grasses, songs in smooth pursuit, the secret
flexing. How difficult it was to pay attention, to know what counted.
She said, “We might measure the world in degrees of artifice, become
neutral with respect to content.” I could smell water of life
on her breath. Bulrush. Loose ends. Obscure camera, the human skull,
outlier on the curve. Before we knew it, it was time to go.
Mud clung to the soles of our boots so thickly we left no footprints.
John’s poems have appeared in many print and online journals, including BOXCAR Poetry Review, Clade Song, Triggerfish Critical Review, and Web Conjunctions. You can find more of his poetry at poemalog.tumblr.com.