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Day's Instruments

2011, Critical Quarterly

They say we should write about our misery soaked selves, parade our inadequacies before all, pad about in cracked slippers Why speak about other things when you cannot mean what you say, when meaning retreats before every attempt to give it a face, make it something to look at, as it stares back, gripping our tattered coils, a green ocean calmly embracing our bubbles rising toward air. They say we should write without expectation, in rooms where walls are deaf to invocations and imbroglios, that we should implode with delight at every silence that greets us. How little they have learned from our refusals.

Day’s Instruments 1 They say we should write about our misery soaked selves, parade our inadequacies before all, pad about in cracked slippers Why speak about other things when you cannot mean what you say, when meaning retreats before every attempt to give it a face, make it something to look at, as it stares back, gripping our tattered coils, a green ocean calmly embracing our bubbles rising toward air. They say we should write without expectation, in rooms where walls are deaf to invocations and imbroglios, that we should implode with delight at every silence that greets us. How little they have learned from our refusals. 2 We took the words we were given, severed earthworms jumping and twisting in our hands, clouds of red dust extruding from their skin, yes, we took these words, gulped them down, knowing they were not ours, and used them. This way and that way, we used the words we were given, words we were told no longer held meaning, their surfaces porous, their sides cracked open, and we poured what we could from them, over our heads set on fire, our feet sticking up from the earth. JOHN YAU 76